


When the Wolves Cry Out

by Slireon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASOIAF is its own warning, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And while it might seem like one at first, I mean, Jon Snow and Robb Stark are Twins, Multi, Ned has a different personality, Or at least that's the official version, Pragmatic Ned Stark, Seriously tho, Tags, how do they work, it really does, it's really not, one would think this is a fix-it fic, when shit hits the fan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-01-25 19:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 61,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18581068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slireon/pseuds/Slireon
Summary: "Honour was nothing more than a delusion. The sweetest of them all, but lethal should reality catch you unaware.  What good was it for, if not stroking one's own ego? It was the softer face of pride's coin. Thanks to their misguided sense of honour, his family had been destroyed and torn to shreds. Countless of people had died because of it. No more. He would keep his family safe and strong by all means necessary, and the Others take his honour. The Gods would understand, Ned hoped."Or, instead of being the honourable and righteous fool we all know and love, Ned Stark is cunning, flexible and pragmatic enough to take steps to ensure House Stark's secure political position, while still being a fundamentally good person.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> First off: thank you so much for taking the time to open my story! I've been toying around with the idea for a few months now, and now, with Season 8 in full gear, I finally decided to give it a go.
> 
> Do you know a game called Crusader Kings 2? It has a Game of Thrones total conversion mod, and After Action Reports narrating your playthrough like a fic are fairly commonplace among the community.  
> I decided to take it a step further and go full-out fan fiction, using my playthrough as Ned Stark as the basis. However, unlike in the game, other characters will react accordingly and realistically to how the situation develops.  
> It is NOT a Ned Stark self-insert, but rather, an attempt to play with a different version of the same character.
> 
> I'm not a native english speaker. I really, really need a beta reader to help me clean up my writing.  
> The story's title "When the Wolves Cry Out" comes from a Game of Thrones-inspired song by Miracle of Sound. Go give it a listen.

A storm of ice and death.

The last man standing.

Holding a broken sword.

Hunted down.

Running through the snow.

But it wasn’t enough.

Blue eyes and inhuman screeches.

No matter how much you run, they’ll always find you.

They’ll kill you, to raise you as one of them.

That is what happened to my companions.

Is that what happened to me, as well?

It must have.

My chest is cut open.

I can see inside of it.

Broken bone.

Frozen gore.

Mortal wounds.

Yet I’m standing right now.

I’m not breathing.

My destroyed heart’s not beating.

My hands are as cold as ice.

My eyes are blue.

I’m not truly alive.

It’s the only thing it can possibly mean.

But I can think.

I have independent thought.

I’m as much a wight as the rest of them.

Yet I’m still myself.

Awakening in the middle of nowhere.

All my former friends long gone.

Serving their killers in death.

But not me.

I can see my organs.

I can take them out.

Squeeze the tattered remains of my heart with my hand.

Nothing happens.

I feel no pain.

I’m still standing.

Suddenly everything became so clear.

I cannot die, for I am already dead.

How should I feel about the fact that such realization does nothing but bring me a cold satisfaction?

I cannot live.

I cannot die.

This makes my quest all the more easier.

There is nothing to fear, as they cannot kill me.

For I am already dead.

I have nothing to lose, for I can't come back.

Those I've left behind will endure.

But only if I accomplished what I set out to do.

I am a dead man walking.

And so, I soldier on.

I must fulfill my quest.

The quest I set out years ago, with my most faithful retainers.

A suicide mission.

One only I can complete.

To bring light back to this world forsaken by the Gods.

To bring an end to this long night.

To let there be fire again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prologue was rewritten at least five times before I settled for this.  
> I'm still unsatisfied, but considering how it has no plot-relevance whatsoever (yet), I think it's serviceable enough.  
> Regarding the laconic, paused style of writing, that's a stylistic choice for this chapter only. Future chapters are far more "conventionally" written, and I sincerely hope you'll like them.
> 
> For some reason, I'm wont to try and reference other works constantly in the middle of my text.   
> This chapter has two shout-outs to songs. The first is just a throwaway line. The second (and most obscure) has MAJOR plot relevance further down the line.


	2. The Promise [Ned I]

Seven riders moved swiftly across the red mountains of Dorne.

The sun was high in the sky, it's scorching heat taking a heavy toll on the riders. Yet, it failed to deter them from their goal: the single, small tower of red brick on the top of the hill, overseeing the arid valley.

Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell led the party as they closed in on the tower. He did not know what to expect from the lone tower in the middle of nowhere.

Would a full garrison ride out to meet them with steel and blood? Or only the remaining sworn brothers of Aerys’ Kingsguard? Or, as Ned feared the most, would the tower only be host to the soft whisper of the wind and the dust of abandonment?

He felt his anxiety, that had implanted itself on the back of his head and had held steadfast for the whole war, near the boiling point. But he would not show it and he would not budge. He would not waver in front of his companions.

Despite his youth, he was their Lord and leader, and he had to keep calm in the face of adversity, to provide a steady leadership. For their sakes and his own, Ned settled his jaw and stoically continued to look ahead, trying not to think what they would find in the tower.

Or worse, what they wouldn’t find.

Lyanna.

His baby sister.

They had always been close, and if Ned hadn’t been fostered in the Eyrie, Gods knew they would be damn near inseparable. When they were children, she would follow him everywhere, even where she wasn’t supposed to be: Ned remembered how she used to sneak into his sparring lessons, steal a sword out of the armory and beat his or his brothers’ poor hides raw before they could even lift their own sword. She would literally ride circles around him while he was trying to teach Benjen swordplay, teasing them the whole time from on top her horse.

His wild little sister, who had grown into a great beauty and was betrothed to Ned’s best friend, the Lord of the Stormlands, who was completely and hopelessly besotted with her. It was true that Robert Baratheon was a lustful man and had voracious appetites, but to be fair with him, most, if not all, young unwed lords were that way; Ned knew that once married with Lyanna Robert would change his ways, for he loved her so. For Lyanna, Robert would fight a war.

And he did.

When she had been kidnapped by Rhaegar Targaryen.

The war that had shred Westeros to pieces, bleeding the land dry. Taking men’s lives without any remorse, leaving behind fatherless sons and childless fathers. The fields had been burnt, castles ransacked, old men maimed, women raped.

And innocent children murdered.

The images of the royal princes’ bodies wrapped in Lannisters banners had been etched in fire in his mind. A little girl of just three years of age, stabbed half a hundred times; a babe of barely a year with nothing but a bloody pulp instead of a head. They were just babes, innocent of any of the crimes of their forefathers. And yet, they had been murdered in cold blood. Horrible, unspeakable crimes that, by all the laws of Gods and men, demanded the harshest punishment.

And yet, Robert had done nothing of the sort. Instead, he had congratulated the butchers for a job well done.

His cold satisfaction had been what truly shook Ned to his core. He knew his closest friend despised the Targaryens with a burning hatred for what they had done to Ned’s family. A hatred that even himself indulged in from time to time; after all, Aerys had burnt his father to death, strangled his brother, and Rhaegar kidnapped his sister and Ned knew the prince had forced himself upon her. For that, Ned would loathe them until his last day: they had destroyed his family, and both Targaryens had to pay for their crimes, and indeed, so they had.

Only them. No one else.

To condone the brutal killing of infants because of who their forefathers were was a despicable, dishonourable thing to do, and he would have no part in it. To go the extra mile and deny their basic humanity and calling them “dragonspawn” was utterly unfathomable to him. And yet, his closest friend, the man he loved like a brother, had done just so. Even Tywin Lannister, the proud and ruthless lord of Casterly Rock, seemed unsettled by such a declaration. And he had been the man who gave the order to ransack the capital and murder the Targaryen babes and their mother without batting an eye.

He had been outraged. Ned looked at his hands holding the stirrups and noticed they were shaking with barely conceived wrath. He was still outraged.

What crimes had they commited? Who had they hurt? What part did they play in their family’s crimes? None whatsoever, and yet had suffered an undeserved death, far more gruesome than most of the soldiers in the war had suffered.

Of course something had to be done with them, Ned knew; even Hodor knew, Ned was willing to wager. Marry Rhaenys to Robert’s firstborn son to strengthen the Baratheon’s tenuous claim to the Iron Throne. Foster Aegon in Storm’s End and have him take the Black when he was old enough.

It was a risky strategy, but one Ned would be willing to put his stakes on; mayhaps Rhaenys could grow into happiness fostered in the Baratheon’s heartlands and love the man she would marry. Aegon would be as good as dead for the Realm once in the Wall, his claims forsaken, just like many other claimants had been across history. Just like his great great granduncle was right now.

Exile them to Essos, if you were truly afraid of little children, although you would have to prepare for another, inevitable, war in a few decades when they attempted to cross the sea and take back their throne.

But Ned would not have killed them.

Never.

But no matter how much he grieved the children’s and their mother’s horrible deaths, it was already done. No matter how much he wished otherwise, the crime could not be undone.

He had learned during the war that it was of no use dwelling on what could have beens. It was a futile exercise to try and avoid to face reality. Shaking the images from his mind, he looked ahead.

He was so near to his sister, and yet so far away. The thought of Ser Barristan’s lead being false or outdated was too much to bear. And yet, like an insidious pest, such thought was unshakeable and crept on him constantly, unbidden.

Would the three of them still be guarding this tower in the middle of nowhere, with their prince dead on the Trident? With their King stabbed in the back? With the royal family butchered like dogs? They had vowed to defend the King and his family, and yet had been nowhere near when they had all been killed. It didn’t make any sense to Ned. Whatever it could be said of Aerys, he certainly had had the finest Kingsguard in decades; brave, skilled and honourable men, all seven of them.

 _Well, six of them_ , Ned thought contemptuously. Jaime Lannister had denied the realm of justice when he stabbed Aerys in the back. _The Mad King had to die, of course._ If Lannister had kept his oaths and died honourably with him, or forsaken them and fled like a craven, it was all the same to Lord Stark _._

And yet, Lannister had gone and killed him. _He had no right to kill him. No family to avenge_ , Ned thought, grief still fresh in his heart. No one would miss Aerys, and he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he had sorely wished his blade had been the one to pierce the Mad King's heart. Instead, Lannister had deprived him of his vengeance, and he would never forgive him for that. But the fact that he had chosen to sit on the throne while its former holder bled out in the floor was suspect.  _Was he trying to usurp the throne for his father? Or for himself?_ , he wondered once again. _I wouldn’t put past a Lannister to make such blatant and untenable power grabs._ Especially one as skilled and filled with youthful arrogance as Ser Jaime, and one with a man like Tywin Lannister as a father.

 _Yet, he probably did us a favour_ , he mused begrudgingly. _Better for Robert’s reign than the Lannisters were the villains instead of the Baratheons._

 _And yet, they're villains all the same,_ corpses wrapped in red banners in his mind.  _I rescue Lyanna and I’m done. Back to Winterfell. I won’t associate myself with opportunists and butchers._

As they closed in the tower, he spared his companions a glance. They looked ahead anxiously, yet with grim determination. They had all suffered in many ways in the war, and they knew this was to be one of the last battles, even if no one would sing about it. They would not fail, despite how much the dornish heat was already trying to kill them.

Theo Wull swayed on the saddle, looking near to a heatstroke. Mark Ryswell had taken off almost all of his clothes, and still sweated like a pig. The others weren’t much better; they were all of the North, accustomed to the cold. They had never experienced the dornish sun, and were finding it too much to bear.

Only Ethan Glover, Brandon’s former squire, who had been locked up in the black cells for so long he looked as ghostly pale as Lord Bolton seemed to relish somewhat in the sunlight and yet even he gulped down his waterskin mercilessly. _Fuck Dorne_ , Ned thought wearily.

They were so close now to the tower that Ned could see three white figures standing by it. He felt both relief and dread wash over him. Relief, for Ser Barristan had spoken truly. Dread, for what was to come.

As his horse slowed down its pace, and Ned dismounted, he looked at the three knights between him and his sister. All three wore the white enameled armour of the Kingsguard, with its distinctive white cloak blowing with the wind.

Ser Oswell Whent was sitting in a boulder by the tower’s door, the black bat of his house painted in his white helm, as he sharpened his blade with a whetstone.

Ser Arthur Dayne, The Sword of the Morning, just stared at them in a lackadaisical manner, with a sad smile on his lips. The hilt of Dawn, his family’s ancestral greatsword, poked over his right shoulder. When he caught sight of him, Ned felt a deep sadness pool inside him. Had things been different, they could have been family, yet now they faced each other as mortal enemies. Only one would walk away from this forsaken place. Whatever happened, whoever died, today would be a sad day for both Starks and Daynes.

Between both knights stood old Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, his unshaved and weathered face looking every bit as fierce as the man was reputed to be.

Ned walked up to them, followed by his faithful companions. Once they were close enough, they stopped. Ser Oswell stood up, throwing the whetstone to one side.

Seven against three. They just stared at each other warily.

“I looked for you on the Trident,” Ned broke the silence.

“We were not there,” answered Ser Gerold.

“Woe to the Usurper if we had,” added Ser Oswell grimly.

“When King’s Landing fell, Jaime Lannister slew your king on the steps to the Throne. The royal family were butchered by the lions like sheep. And I found myself wondering where you were.”

“Far away”, said Ser Gerold, utter contempt in his voice, “or Aerys would yet sit on the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in the seven hells.”

“I came down to Storm’s End to lift the siege,” Ned continued, “and the Lords of the Reach dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them.”

“Our knees do not bend easily,” scowled Ser Arthur Dayne.

“Ser Willem Darry fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. Where else you might have been, if not with him?”

“Ser Willem is a good man”, said Ser Oswell.

“But not of the Kingsguard”, Ser Gerold pointed out. “The Kingsguard does not flee.”

“Then or now,” said Ser Arthur, as he donned his helm.

He knew what was to happen next.

“Where is my sister?” Ned asked coldly. He had his hand on his sword’s pommel, and he felt his companions moving up beside him.

None of the Kingsguard answered, but their silence told him everything he needed to know. Ned glanced up the tower. _I’m coming for you, little sister._

“The war is over,” Ned stated, but he knew very well it was a hopeless endeavour. Bloodshed was inevitable.

“We swore a vow”, sentenced old Ser Gerold uncompromisingly.

_So be it._

Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.

“And now it begins”, he said. His sworn brothers followed his lead.

Ned looked at him sadly as he unsheathed his own sword. Behind him, he heard his companions do the same. There was no way out, now.

“No. Now it ends.”

With a war cry, Ethan lunged forward against Ser Arthur, but, still out of form after his year in the cells, he overextended himself. The Sword of the Morning effortlessly parried Glover’s sword to one side, and with a simple swift riposte, he skewered Ethan with Dawn before he could react.

Ethan fell to his knees, clutching his spilling guts. Dayne didn’t give him a second thought, immediately moving against Theo Wull with an upwards slash. Buckets had better luck than Glover, though, blocking Dawn with his shield, buying enough time to allow Ned to join the duel.

Dayne, however, was more than enough for both northmen, and kept them at bay with masterful ease and, indeed, constantly took the offensive, a man entranced by the dance of battle.

Around them, the steel sang its bitter symphony. Mark Ryswell and Martyn Cassel found themselves facing Ser Oswell, while Howland Reed and Lord Dustin danced with the White Bull. Despite being outnumbered, the Kingsguards were by far the better swordsmen, blocking every lunge, stopping any attempt at a remise, sidestepping out of the way when they were attacked with their swords out of place.

Mark Ryswell bashed Ser Oswell with his shield, throwing him off balance, but when he attempted to remise with his blade with a downwards cross, he left his chest open to kingsguard swift counterattack. He ran Ryswell through with his steel before the northman had even began to bring his arm down.

Martyn called his friend’s name in despair, but Mark was dead before Oswell freed his sword off his chest. Whent’s blade, still spattered with blood and gore, shot straight out of Ryswell to meet Cassel’s own sword, parrying him right on time.

While the ageing Lord Commander was still an implacable foe, he was having a harder time than his sworn brothers, for he was facing Lord Reed. The crannogman was not a great swordsman, but was lithe and swift, and constantly harried him whenever Hightower's attention was focused on Lord Dustin. Howland, as well, always managed to avoid Hightower’s blade, leaving him open to Dustin’s attacks. The White Bull, however, always managed to deflect his blows on time, and the duel continued on and on.

Until Howland’s footing failed and left him stumbling. Seeing his best chance appear, Ser Gerold lunged at the crannogman, his sword in a sidewards slash and poised to take Reed’s head off, but suddenly there was no one in front of him. Reed had dodged underneath the knight’s sword arm, positioning himself behind him and pulled the white cloak with all his strength.

Trapped between Howland’s pull and his own weight’s inertia, the White Bull staggered for an instant. An instant Willam exploited, lunging forward with his sword and slashing at Hightower’s unprotected neck as he recovered. Lord Dustin’s sword was deflected at the last moment by the White Bull’s.

For one fleeting instant it seemed the duel would continue as it had done many times before, but then bright crimson blood spouted out of the Lord Commander’s neck, and he fell to a knee, grasping at his bleeding gash with his left arm while he kept his sword arm raised, defiance in his eyes. If he was going down, he was taking someone with him.

It was not to be. Quickly Lord Reed stepped in, and stabbed him down his spine for good measure. Ser Gerold Hightower shuddered one last time, and collapsed on the floor like a puppet who had his strings cut.

Finding themselves without a foe, both northmen ran to Martyn Cassel’s aid, who was struggling against Ser Oswell Whent, who was far too fast and skilled for him to keep up with. Whent kicked Cassel straight in the chest, staggering him. Before Martyn could recover, Ser Oswell twisted with his whole body, and struck at his foe’s neck with all his might. Martyn Cassel fell to the floor, instantly dead and with his head half chopped off, just as his friends arrived.

Howland tackled Whent from the side before he recovered his poise, and, taking advantage of their closeness, stabbed him in the gut, piercing through his white enameled armour. Oswell howled with pain and rage, and elbowed Reed off him straight in the mouth, but as he spun to deliver the killing blow, the crannogman had ran off and the knight’s sword clashed against Lord Dustin’s. Quickly Oswell remised, besieging an unprepared Willam, slashing his sword high and low, which Dustin struggled to meet blow by blow. And yet, Ser Oswell was slowly but surely losing the fight, blood seeping down his chest piece, his wound hounding him down.

Reed sneaked in behind Oswell, and hamstrung him, his sword scything up the knight’s leg. Whent, cursing loudly, turned on his unhurt heel to take bloody revenge on Reed, but it proved to be a fatal mistake, for his back was now facing Lord Dustin.

Dustin promptly grabbed Oswell by his white cloak, pulled him towards himself and shoved his sword deep into his neck. Ser Oswell Whent coughed blood for an instant, then went limp. Both men moved to encircle Ser Arthur Dayne, joining Ned and Theo.

Ser Arthur was the only kingsguard still standing against four foes, but that didn’t make Ned feel any confidence. If his sworn brothers were masters of the blade, The Sword of the Morning was a true artist; Dawn, his brush; blood, his paint, and Ned’s face, his canvas. It had taken Ned every ounce of skill he had to just survive against Dawn’s dance, and yet, he wasn’t sure how much more he could keep up like that.

Buckets couldn’t. The scorching heat had taken the heaviest toll on the clansman, and his moves were starting to get slower as he was more and more exhausted. His heavy lunge against Arthur was parried, and, just like Ethan, Theo Wull was left overextended by his weakened form.

Unlike Ethan, Wull had a steel shield, which came up to meet against Dayne’s riposte, yet promptly gave in as Dawn’s shining blade pierced both shield and arm with ease. Theo howled in agony, and Dayne stepped in, twisted Dawn and pulled it free, then hacked at the clansman’s neck. Crimson blood spattered out, and Theo fell to the ground, headless.

Ser Arthur immediately moved against Howland, putting the crannogman on the defensive; his agility was useless against such a formidable foe who always seemed to know beforehand what Howland would do, how he would evade his swings and how he would counterattack. With his greatest strength taken away, Howland was left a mediocre swordsman facing against a legendary foe.

Ned lunged to his longtime friend’s aid, but the Sword of the Morning instantly came up to meet his sword in a clash of steel. Dayne kicked Howland straight in the chest, knocking his breath out of him and dropping him to the floor, wheezing.

Taking advantage of the swords’ lock, Willam attempted to attack Dayne’s legs, but, without breaking his lock with Ned, Ser Arthur freed up one arm and pulled a dagger from his waist, parrying Dustin’s slash at the last second, and stabbed his dagger in a gap between his chest plate and left pauldron. Dayne immediately kicked Ned in the gut, throwing him to the ground, and turned to capitalise on his hit on the Lord of Barrowton.

Willam was hurt, and the dagger had been left stuck in his shoulder, impairing his mobility. Pain was etched on his face, as he struggled to keep Ser Arthur at bay, meeting Dawn with his own sword with all the franticness of a cornered snake. He would be dead in a matter of seconds.

 _This has to end now._ Ned clenched his hand into a fist with grim determination as he stood up, and yelled with what he hoped was a lewd tone.

“Ser Arthur! You handle your sword almost as deftly as your sister handled mine!”, he knew the knight could hear him above the singing of steel, “Pray tell, is my bastard already born?”

That did it. Ser Arthur’s composure, already cracked by his sworn brothers’ demises and by everything that had happened in the last year, finally broke, and with a primal snarl of rage, he hacked at Dustin without any of the finesse he had displayed before, slashing savagely across his chest instead of going for the kill with a riposte. The cuirass was cut through like butter by Dawn's magic-like blade. Dustin howled in agony, and fell to the floor. Dayne turned to face Ned, murder in his purple eyes.

Ned knew the next few seconds would be crucial. He felt anxiety bubble up inside him. No, not anxiety; fear. He was staring right into the face of death, as it loomed to him with long, purposeful strides. And yet, what he felt the most was bitter resignation. _I didn’t want it to come to this._

“I wonder,” Ned continued, with the same crude tone, “if his surname will be Snow or” – Ser Arthur was upon him, Dawn held up high – “Sand!” and he threw the fistful of sand he had been clutching straight into the Sword of the Morning’s eyes.

Ser Arthur staggered for an instant, stunned by the sand in his eyes.

An instant was all it took.

Ned lunged at him, and drove his sword through the knight’s left eye, killing him instantly.

Blood spattered Ned’s face, and Ser Arthur went limp in his grasp. Ned slid his sword off Dayne’s eye, and held him with his left arm. Slowly, softly, he crouched in one knee and laid The Sword of the Morning’s corpse on the ground. He closed the dead man’s remaining eye.

Ned looked at Ser Arthur. He looked peaceful in death, the grief and rage that had consumed him in his last moments erased by the sword. He had been a legendary swordsman, and a great man as well. His Gods would judge him fairly; if they had any mercy, and if rumour was to be believed, he could be with his beloved Elia in death as they never could in life.

He felt his companions’ eyes staring at him. As the battle came to a close, Howland han ran up to aid Lord Dustin, and was now in the process of patching up his bleeding chest. Silence held heavy upon them.

Ned spoke, voice thick with regret.

“He fought with honour. He deserved better than to die by trickery.”

“Then why did you?” Howland asked in a neutral tone.

“Honour killed my father. Honour killed my brother,” Ned looked over the battlefield. Ethan Glover, long bled out in a pool of his own blood and gore. Mark Ryswell, skewered. Ser Gerold Hightower, his throat nicked and stabbed through his spine. Martyn Cassel, his head half chopped off. Ser Oswell Whent, hamstrung and impaled through the neck. Theo Wull, beheaded. Ser Arthur Dayne, a sword ran through his eye. Ten men had fought, only three survived. “Honour killed everyone here but ourselves. All of them died far before their time. I won’t let honour spell the end of me or mine anymore.”

“You shouldn’t have done it. I’d rather have a good, honourable death than survive through duplicity,” Dustin protested weakly, struggling to keep a straight face as Howland bared his chest to treat it.

“Had I not, House Dustin would be extinct, and your wife a widow. Would you really prefer that? Do you truly care more about your personal honour than the survival of your blood?” He asked Willam. The Lord of Barrowton had no other answer than a pensive, downcast look of distaste. Ned shared his feeling, and sighed in resignation. “Aye. That’s what I thought.”

He had already lost too much. He couldn’t allow it to happen again.

The last year had shattered how he saw the world. Everything had changed overnight. Lyanna kidnapped. Father burnt alive, Brandon hanging himself trying to save him. In one terrible afternoon, he was suddenly Lord of Winterfell, the title he had never been groomed for and that he never wished to hold, even in his wildest dreams.

He remembered when Jon Arryn informed him about what happened. Robert nearly destroyed the courtyard in a blind rage, but Ned managed grief in his own way. He had sat in the Eyrie’s would-be Godswood, and wept bitterly. He wept for Father and Brandon, gruesomely and senseless killed by a madman. He wept for his sister, completely at the mercy of her kidnapper. He wept for his family, destroyed by the whims of tyrants. The injustice of it all had shaken him to his core.

And then the world burned.

When he was a child, he used to hear Maester Walys talk of the wars across history as an honourable struggle between good and evil. The Long Night. The war against the Night King. The power struggles between the Kings of Winter and the Red Kings of the Dreadfort. How Theon Stark had repelled the Andal invasion. The heroes were always honourable, chivalrous men facing against power hungry tyrants, and Ned had always strived to be like them.

But war changed men. He had learnt that doing the right thing was not always honourable, nor was doing the honourable thing always right; his mistakes, never mind how well-meaning they were, were paid in the bodies of the innocent. Honourable heroes like Brandon or Elbert and Denys Arryn ended up dead, and ruthless butchers like the Lannisters were showered in praise. 

He couldn’t keep his eyes closed after that, no matter how much he desired to.

Honour was nothing more than a delusion. The sweetest of them all, but lethal should reality catch you unaware.  What good was it for, if not stroking one's own ego? It was the softer face of pride's coin. Thanks to their misguided sense of honour, his family had been destroyed and torn to shreds. Countless of people had died because of it. No more. He would keep his family safe and strong by all means necessary, and the Others take his honour. The Gods would understand, Ned hoped.

Will’s voice took him out of his reverie.

“Was it true?” Ned stared at him, confused. Weakly, the Lord of Barrowton repeated himself, “What you said about Lady Ashara. Was it true?”

“Gods, no,” he scoffed. At his friend’s raised eyebrow, Ned added “I was so head over heels for her I could barely talk to her.”

“Shittiest dancing partner in the whole tourney.” Howland snarked under his breath as he poured foul-smelling poulstices over Dustin’s chest wounds.

“But… You danced with her. How could you, if you didn’t dare to even ask her out?” Lord Dustin winced.

“I didn’t ask her. Brandon did.”

“Brandon?” Asked Will.

Ned sighed bitterly. “It was all thanks to Brandon. Both the dance and the babe in her belly.”

The first cut was the deepest. When he had caught sight of Lady Ashara Dayne, he had been instantly besotted by her. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He closed his eyes and could still see her face; her haunting violet eyes, her long black hair, her cheeky smile. Her lovely body pressed against his during the dance at the Hall of Hundred Hearths.

And he could barely believe his luck when she admitted she was also enamoured by his dark, brooding looks, by the plain face that had never done him any favours in his youth. The mix of the ale, the dance, and the optimism that had permeated the whole tourney had emboldened him, and they had spent the following days talking at all times; of their families, their homes, their wishes and desires. And so, a superficial attraction had blossomed into something deeper.

In the heat of the moment, in the daze of his first love, Ned had rather brazenly asked for her hand. He could barely believe his luck when she had agreed, as long as he presented her father a formal proposal at the tourney’s last feast.

 _It was thanks to Brandon we got together in the first place_ , Ned reflected, _and that we never did in the end._

When he found out Brandon had had sex with her shortly afterwards, Ned had been outraged at his brother. He had dishonoured them both because he had been unable to keep his cock in his breeches, not even for his brother’s sake.

He had felt cheated and heartbroken. So besotted he was, a young man high on his first love, that he had forgotten Ashara was, despite her pearly white skin and her family’s First Men heritage, a dornishwoman after all.

She hadn’t the same sexual qualms he had; she might marry the second son of Winterfell for love, but she also desired the dashing heir in her bed out of lust. They weren’t betrothed yet anyway, so, as it wouldn’t be unfaithfulness, she had decided to do just so.

But Ned hadn’t seen it that way, lost in his own world of righteousness and chivalry. He ignored Ashara’s further anguished attempts to talk with him for the rest of the Tourney, no matter how much it pained him. Only now, married out of duty to the woman his brother was sworn to marry, a woman he barely even knew, had he realised what he had lost.

And so honour had taken his first love as well.

“Brandon wasn’t shy about taking what he wanted,” Dustin muttered softly. Howland said nothing, as he continued patching Will’s slashed chest.

Ned shot a warning look at his friend.

“Take care of what you say, Will. For all his faults, he was my brother.”

“And my wife’s first lover,” Will laughed mirthlessly. “I like Barbrey well enough, and I don’t hold it against her, but I could tell at our wedding night she was no maid. Maids aren’t that good with their—”

A woman’s bloodcurling scream cut through the air, interrupting their banter.

Ned felt the blood drain from his face.

_Lyanna!_

He shot up, looking at the tower with his mouth agape. He glanced at his companions.

“I’ll live, don’t worry,” coughed Willam.

“I’ll take care of him. Go!” shouted Howland.

Ned nodded, and ran towards the tower’s door, but when he tried to open it, it just clicked.

Another scream, turning his blood ice cold. He couldn’t afford to lose any more time. Ned kicked the door open, and entered the tower.

He looked wildly around the barely decorated room, before catching eye of the circular stairs that began by the far end. He shot towards them, sword in hand and ready to kill anyone who tried to stop him.

 _I’m coming, little sister!_ he thought, running up the stone staircase.

Just as he started to think the stairs may go on forever, he reached the top of the tower: a solid oak door standing firmly in his way. Without slowing down, he body slammed through the door.

It was a small, claustrophobic room, with a heavy, fetid smell that he vaguely recognised. Two women stopped on their tracks at sight of him, bloodied sword in hand. They had been pacing near the bed. The bed in which...

“Ned?” his sister asked weakly, her voice coarse.

“Lyanna,” Ned said breathlessly. After so long, so much bloodshed, he had finally found her. He ran to kneel by the side of the bed, his sword forgotten, resting against it by his side.

“Is that you?” his little sister sobbed, “Is that really you? You’re not a dream?” her hand came up to meet his face. It was wet with blood.

Only then Ned realised the pool of crimson that stained the bed’s mattress, covers, and his sister’s body. Now he identified the smell: the room reeked of death.

Lyanna, his little sister, his baby sister, was on her deathbed. Fevered, red eyed, cold sweat across her brow. He felt his heart break.

“No, I’m not a dream,” Ned said, a knot in his throat. “I’m here.”

“I’ve missed you so much, big brother.”

“I’ve missed you too.”

Despite all, Lyanna smiled, a minuscule hint of her usual demeanour shining through the agony, “What took you so long?”

“A war,” Ned smiled weakly in response, full of grief. _Gods, don’t let it be like this. Please, anything but this._ “But I’m here now, Lya. Everything is going to be fine.”

“No. It’s not,” Lyanna weeped, “I wish I was as brave as you, or father or Brandon,” Another sob. “I don’t want to die.”

“You’re not going to die,” Ned attempted to reassure her, to reassure himself. This couldn’t be happening. “I promised to protect you. When I left for the Eyrie, remember? I swore to always protect you, no matter how far away I was,” Tears were starting to prick his eyes, no matter how much he tried to be strong for her. “I already failed once, when that… _monster_ took you away,” Ned sobbed openly. “I won’t fail again.”

“Oh, sweet Ned, you can’t protect me from myself,” Lyanna smiled feebly.

_What?_

As in cue, he heard a new, as of yet unheard voice cry.

He turned to his side, where he saw a young woman about his age, passing a bundle in her arms to Ned.

It was a baby, brooding grey eyes just like his staring back at him. A wisp of black hair on the top of its head. Ned stared at the baby blankly, a sinking feeling in his gut.

“His name is Viserys Targaryen. He… He was meant to be our little Visenya, but…” His sister trailed off, tears trailing down her face.

Suddenly, everything clicked into place, and Ned felt his world turn inside out.

Lyanna hadn’t been kidnapped and raped by Rhaegar; instead, she had loved him and he had loved her. They had eloped, following their hearts, and Westeros had paid the price in blood and steel.

She had never been kidnapped.

The whole rebellion was built on a lie.

Father, Brandon, everyone. They had all died for nothing.

Even more, Ned realised as dread filled him, they had married in the eyes of Gods and Men, for the boy was named Viserys _Targaryen_.

Not Sand. Not Waters. Hells, not even Snow.

Targaryen.

In his arms, he held the rightful Targaryen heir, and the one true King of Westeros.

A king without a throne.

A babe soon to be an orphan.

A babe who, for the sole crime of being born, faced certain death.

“If Robert finds out, he’ll kill him. You know he will,” _I see no babes, only dragonspawn_ , Robert’s sneer echoed in his head, “You have to protect him. Promise me.”

“Lyanna…” Ned began, numbly.

“You swore to protect me, remember?” she said with an anguished smile, “It’s too late for me. But you can still protect him. _My son._ ”

He felt his heart shatter in a million pieces. _Oh Gods, no…_ The reality of the situation was sinking in, taking him down with it. Lyanna was crying. Ned himself was crying. Was this how it was fated to be, all along? Could it had been avoided, if only honour hadn’t compelled them all to believe the worst and act out on it?

“Promise me, Ned,” Lyanna’s weak voice broke through his daze. “Promise me.”

Ned just nodded, the knot on his throat far too tight for him to trust his voice. It wasn’t enough for Lyanna.

“Promise me, Ned,” She repeated, dying.

“I promise,” Ned whispered, choking on his grief.

As he looked at little Viserys, a small, gurgling bundle of cloth, his face having every inch of the classic Stark look, he was filled with burning determination.

He would protect his nephew with his life. He would give him everything he’d need. A home. A family. A name.

Robert Baratheon would never be able to harm him; he would never even wish for any bad to come to him. Instead, he would dote on the little boy, never aware of his true identity.

For in his arms he held his son.

Jon Stark of Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pre-battle dialogue has been altered for GRRM's writing to mesh better with my own and far-inferior one.  
> I acknowledge that this chapter is a bit too heavy-handed on the "honour means nothing beyond stroking one's ego" stuff, but as it needs to introduce Ned's different character, I consider it a necessary evil.
> 
> Regarding the "Jon Stark" bit... In my playthroughs as Ned, usually the first thing I do is legitimise Jon. However, realistically speaking, that does not change Jon's upbringing as a bastard, nor Catelyn's toxic resentment of him. He would be singled out for the rest of his life, and indeed, Catelyn would perhaps even plot to take Jon out by any means necessary to protect her children's inheritance.  
> Ned has another thing in mind, which, despite being far riskier, has a far better overall pay off.  
> If he has to strong-arm and manipulate the Tullys to get them to do what he wants in Jon's benefit, he will. He'll do everything for his kin.  
> He's going to need to be as fast as possible, though. The window of time is closing.


	3. The Twins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first: many of you pointed out the fact I gave Jon "Viserys" as his Targaryen name, and wondered why. For convenience, I'll answer here:  
> Rhaegar, a man obsessed with prophecies, was naming his children after the three original Targaryens (THE three heads of the dragon), but in reverse: Rhaenys, Aegon... and he's lacking a Visenya. But, as he said, "There must be one more. The dragon has three heads." Therefore, he wanted a girl to name her Visenya (something he agreed with Lyanna), but as he's dead as dicks and a boy was born instead of a girl, Lyanna chose the closest male equivalent she could think of. Ergo, Viserys.  
> I understand and share the reason why most of you dislike the name (namely, Viserys is a fucking cunt), but the name itself is not to blame. Needless to say, it was not a decision made lightly.  
> On a side-note, it also amuses me how Viserys spent his whole life claiming that Viserys III Targaryen was the rightful king of Westeros... And he was actually right; only it was a completely different Viserys, not him.
> 
> Also, if I thought last chapter was controversial (what with naming Jon Viserys), holy fuckity fuck will this one rustle some jimmies.  
> In the notes after the end of the chapter I will try to explain any doubts this chapter will undoubtedly spark.  
> Please do not murder me.

She wasn’t on the battlements.

 _Odd_ , thought Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun. Healthy or sick, his little Cat always waited for his return standing at the battlements of the sandstone castle.

Mayhaps, she had already given birth, and was still recovering. It had been almost nine moons since her wedding night with Lord Stark; he presumed their babe, his first grandchild, should have been born a few days ago, so Cat would be doting on her little pup.

Hoster dreaded to dwell on the alternatives. His beloved Minisa had been dead and buried for years, but he still felt the pain of her loss keenly every morning when he woke and realised she wasn’t by his side anymore.

 _Mother, please let Cat endure childbirth better than her own mother ever did_ , Hoster prayed silently, closing his eyes as he swayed in the saddle. He heard cheers coming from both the men and the castle as they closed in.

After a long year at war, the Tully host had returned home. With the war already over, no more fighting was to come. And so, the Riverlords had all left with their men back to their castles.

Even the “late” Lord Walder Frey had returned home, only answering his summons after Rhaegar’s corpse was cold. _Fucking craven,_ thought Hoster bitterly. _Took his men on a stroll while we were fighting a war, and he still has the gall to ask me to marry Edmure to one of his cows. Why should I indulge him and grant him honours, when he wouldn’t even piss on us if we were on fire?_

He dearly hoped Lord Walder did Westeros a favour and died soon. Ser Stevron, despite looking every inch the tired old weasel his lord father was, was a pleasant and honourable man. What Hoster wouldn’t give to have him as his bannerman instead of the withered and extortionist crone that sat on the chair of The Twins...

The cheering from the castle only grew louder as they marched closer to its heavy redwood gates. Standing in front of them at the other end of the drawbridge, instead of Ser Desmond Grell, Riverrun’s castellan, stood his boy.

Edmure, heir to Riverrun, tried to look lordly and gallant, but he was barely a decade of age, and instead looked exactly what he was: a kid trying too hard to be a man. It was actually a rather endearing sight, and seeing his little boy dressed as a lord made Hoster’s heart fill with pride. But the display was one that would probably be mocked endlessly by his bannermen in their drinks.

Good thing most had already left the main host, and by now only Lord Tytos Blackwood rode with him. The Lord of Raventree Hall looked positively amused at the sight of Edmure, but Hoster knew his friend’s smile to be fond; he, too, had a young heir of more or less the same age, and was probably thinking of him.

As they approached the drawbridge, Hoster dismounted his warhorse, and stayed put. Whoever had put Edmure on it, the fact remained he was on stage. He had to say his lines. Formality had to be observed.

“Father,” squeaked nervously Edmure, “Riverrun is yours.”

Instead of speaking up in answer, Hoster strode across the drawbridge, knelt and hugged his son fiercely. After a stunned instant, Edmure wrapped his arms around his father tightly.

He heard his army cheer behind him, chants of “Riverrun”, “House Tully”, and even “King Robert” raising up to the skies. That simple gesture, the homecoming of a father as he hugged his child, signaled for them the true end of the year long war that had changed the face of Westeros irrevocably.

The Age of the Dragons was over.

As the men filled the courtyard and reunited with their loved ones, Hoster took his son with him to a side of the entrance.

“You did well, boy,” he said, ruffling his son’s messy auburn mop. Edmure’s face turned as red as his hair.

Truth be told, it would have been harder to mess up that not to, but to be fair with the lad, he was only ten years of age, and it was the first time he ever played a leading role on the mummer’s farce that was the feudal protocol. His little boy was growing.

“Thank you, father. It was my idea I should be the one to present the castle back to you, instead of Ser Desmond. It is my duty, after all,” he mumbled, clearly proud of himself yet sheepish. The contrast was rather amusing.

“And why should it be your duty?” Hoster asked, feigning curiosity. Edmure instantly deflated. Instead, his son looked at him as if he had just stepped on a small kitten’s head.

“Because… because I’m your son. Because I’m your heir!” He stuttered, sadness and disappointment in his bright blue eyes.

“I know. I’m just jesting. You’ll be a fine lord one day.” Edmure lightened up instantly at the praise.

He was an emotional boy, prone to change between happiness and sadness as easily as Walder Frey changed wives. _He’ll grow out of it,_ Hoster mused as he looked around for his Cat, but she was nowhere to be found.

“Say, where is your sister?”

Edmure’s eyes dropped to the floor.

Hoster didn’t like that. At all.

“Well…?” Hoster prodded, keeping at bay the insidious dread he felt pooling inside.

“She entered labor a fortnight ago. But…” Edmure began softly, but trailed off.

“But _what_ ?” Hoster could hear his heartbeat drum in his ears. _Gods damn it boy, just spit it out!_

“But… it wasn’t an easy birth. She screamed a lot. She’s been in a fever ever since.” Edmure looked up. His eyes were tearing up.

 _No…_ “What does the Maester say?”

“He says she’ll be fine, but he said that days ago and she’s still bedridden.” Edmure pouted. “Is Cat going to die? I don’t want her to die.”

 _Neither do I_.

His little girl was suffering the same fate her mother had. The same fate his own mother had, giving birth to the Blackfish. It made him wonder sometimes if the women of House Tully were cursed to die in childbirth.

What about Lysa? Had her bastard not been dealt with, would she also had suffered the same fate? Hoster felt like someone punched him in the gut. Still, something was missing.

“And the babe?” Hoster asked tremulously, holding his breath. He feared the answer.

At this, Edmure’s eyes lighted up.

“Oh, he’s fine! The Maester said he was stronger and healthier than any babe he had delivered before. Ser Desmond says little Robb looks like me, but I’m not so sure.”

Hoster let out a relieved sight. _Mother be good, at least the babe is alright._

“A boy named Robb Stark, then?” He had made a bet with Lord Blackwood that if the babe was a boy, he would be named Brandon. _One less stag on the purse_ , Hoster mused.

“Well, Robert Stark, truth be told. Named after our new King.” Edmure clarified. “But Robb sounds better, doesn’t it? I came up with it myself!” He beamed, his previous sadness completely forgotten.

He didn’t believe that one bit. His proud little boy was always trying to take credit for himself, to live up to the name he had been born to. Hoster had to ensure he didn’t turn out like Lord Tyrell once he grew up, but there would be time for that later. _If only Minnie was here. She’d know what to do._

That being said, Robb Stark did sound better, if only for how shamefully had Robert Baratheon behaved in the aftermath of the fall of King’s Landing. Besides, it helped him stand out amongst the veritable army of “Roberts” that would certainly be borne in the following years. As befits the future Lord of Winterfell.

"If the birth was almost a fortnight ago, how come the maester didn't send me any ravens?"

"He hasn't sent them at all; he's waiting to see if Cat... well..." Edmure answered awkwardly, fidgeting with the trout brooch that held his cloak together.

“I see..." A moment of silence. "Where is he?” Hoster asked. He itched to see his first grandson. His first _real_ grandson.

“At the nursery,” Edmure replied.

“Lead the way, then.”

He didn’t need to repeat himself. Edmure shot straight towards the keep, and Hoster was right behind him, both Tully’s moving between the knights and guards, who rejoiced at seeing their kin alive and well.

The courtyard was filled with the hustle and confusion that only a returning army could cause, as brothers rejoined, lovers met in each other’s embrace… and widows wailed when they found out their beloved had died in the war.

When they arrived at the nursery’s doors, Edmure still seemed to be full of energy, while Hoster was out of breath. The boy had near sprinted his way through the corridors and staircases, while Hoster struggled to keep up with him. It had been a long day of riding, he hadn’t taken off his plate armour and scabbard, and the wounds he had been inflicted in the Battle of the Bells were still sore.

 _Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to take part in the Trident_ , thought Hoster as he tried to regain his composure. Since he had been wounded, he had spent most of the war bringing the royalist Riverlords to heel, a task that both allowed him to convalescence and keep tabs on his Cat’s pregnancy.

Jon Arryn had taken Lysa to the Vale, along with the accursed Blackfish. The thought of both of them filled him with bitterness. _I only did what I had to do for my family, and they couldn’t, didn’t want to, understand that._

He noticed Edmure looking at him expectantly. Not even a single bead of sweat was running through his brow.

“Father, are you alright?” Edmure worriedly asked.

 _Not thanks to you_ , Hoster grumbled crankily.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said warmly instead. “After you,” he gestured at the door.

On cue, Edmure opened the door to the nursery, ran towards Robb’s crib and, once he stood beside it and glanced inside, he promptly freezed, eyes wide open.

Hoster felt his stomach immediately sink.

 _Did the boy…?_ It wasn’t unheard of children, deemed healthy at birth, die suddenly in the next few days or weeks. _Is my grandson…?_

“There’s another baby,” Edmure muttered before Hoster could react.

_What?_

“What?” Hoster said out loud.

“There’s another baby in the crib with Robb.” Edmure elaborated rather unhelpfully.

Hoster walked to the crib, the clank of his steel plates the only sound in the nursery.

Indeed, there were two babies, both slightly less than a month old and both sleeping.

The babe on the right had the classic Tully look, a soft pink colouring his skin and an auburn tuft of hair on the top of his head. If that was little Robb, then Ser Desmond was right: he looked just like Edmure did when he was born.

The other babe, however, looked nothing like him: he was quite pale, maybe even a bit purple, with dark brown hair. While little Robb looked like he was sleeping fitfully, the strange baby looked troubled.

“I...” Hoster began, feeling as lost as Edmure looked.

That was an understatement; Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun was completely and utterly befuddled.

How in the Seven Hells did a new baby appear out of nowhere? _Who_ in the Seven Hells was this baby? His colouring and grim countenance reminded Hoster of Lord Stark.

 _Could it be that Cat gave birth to twins?_ Pairs of twins that look nothing alike between themselves were not unheard of. It would go a long way to explain her unexpectedly tortured childbirth, as well as the child’s identity.

But then, how come Edmure didn’t tell him just that? How come Edmure has _utterly no idea_ who this baby is?

If he wasn’t Cat’s child, then what was he doing here? Could it be someone sneaked the child into the nursery? _No,_ Hoster discarded the thought, _the guards would have stopped him. They know the nursery is under strict surveillance._

Hoster glanced at Edmure, who still stared at the baby wide eyed and open mouthed, like a fish out of water. _Perhaps he’s just dimwitted?_

If that was the case, he didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry.

“If I may interject, my lord Tully…”, came a quiet voice from the corner, breaking both Tullys out of their daze.

Hoster’s sword shot straight out of his scabbard towards the intruder. Sitting in a chair by the fireplace was a small and thin man with messy brown curls, and a haggard, unshaved beard. He was dressed in a dark green garb, and wore a gorget embossed with a lizard-lion.

 _A crannogman_ , thought Hoster as he recognised the sigil. He didn’t lower his sword. _Crannogmen are shifty, cunning and treacherous_ , he could remember his father telling him in his childhood, and Lord Hoster had yet to see otherwise.

“Explain yourself. Now,” he commanded. Edmure looked wide-eyed at the scene in front of him. If they were still alive, the guardsmen would be in serious trouble.

The crannogman stared at the sword unfazed.

“Now, Lord Tully, there’s no need for such hostility.”

“You sneaked into my castle, _my home_ , by means I ignore and for reasons I cannot fathom. You waltzed into the nursery. You could have easily kidnapped _my grandson_ , if not straight out kill him with the poisons your people are so fond of, if you so wished, and we would be none the wiser until the wetnurses found him. I say there’s all the need for hostility,” Hoster said, not budging a bit.

“... Well, when you put it that way…” the crannogman chuckled.

 _And he laughs?!_ Hoster temper flared. He was sorely tempted to run the intruder through with his blade.

“But I am not your enemy, my lord. My name is Howland Reed. I’m the Lord of Greywater Watch. I am Lord Stark’s bannerman and friend.”

“You might as well be The Sword of the Morning for all I care,” Hoster sentenced, unfazed.

“Ser Arthur Dayne is dead.”

 _What?_ Now he was put off. Seeing that, Lord Reed continued.

“Lord Eddard Stark killed him in single combat. We rode afterwards to deliver Dawn, House Dayne’s ancestral sword, to Starfall. There, in Lady Ashara’s breast, we found him,” and with that, Howland nodded at the baby next to Robb.

“And what is he doing here?”

“He’s of Lord Stark’s blood. Ned looks after his family.”

“After his bastard, more like,” Hoster spat.

The boy looked the perfect Stark, grim and grey, and Hoster was all too aware of the rumours the dance between him and Lady Dayne at Harrenhal had sparked.

Did Lord Eddard intend to raise his bastard alongside his trueborn child? To usurp little Robb’s inheritance, in favour of a baby born out of the lust of a tourney? If that was the case, Stark would rue the day he crossed the Tullys of Riverrun.

“After his brother’s bastard, as a matter of fact,” Howland corrected. “Brandon’s bastard.”

At that, Hoster frowned.

Brandon had a bastard? He would be a fool to put it past him; Lord Rickard’s heir had been a hot-blooded youth, filled to the brim with passion and prone to rash acts of impulsiveness. It had led him to an early grave.

_Oh._

Hoster quickly realised the true nature of the situation.

Would Brandon’s passion spell his brother’s downfall, as well?

Born posthumously to the firstborn of Winterfell, the bastard had been unable, both by law and by birth, to take his place in the line of succession, to be his father’s heir. He would grow in resentment of his uncle and his legitimate cousins, all his life feeling usurped, cheated out of what he thought should be rightfully his, like bastards are wont to do.

That little babe of Brandon’s seed was now sleeping snugly alongside his cousin, Hoster’s grandson, but he very well might one day kill him to take what he thought should be his. Many times, Lord Tully had seen bastards killing their legitimate half-brothers, unfazed, to take over properties as miserable as a farm or a mill. How eager would they be, if they felt cheated out of a keep?

And Winterfell was no ordinary keep, Hoster knew that much.

He couldn’t allow it to happen.

“What is he doing here?” Hoster asked once again, gripping his blade with renewed strength.

“Preventing such a disaster from happening,” Howland answered, as if he had been privy to Hoster’s thoughts.

“I don’t see how bringing the bastard into my home does anything _but_ instigate disaster!” the Lord of Riverrun shouted back. Edmure flinched instinctively at his father’s angered tone, but was otherwise completely enraptured in what was going on between the two lords.

“Bringing a bastard into your home instigates disaster, yes. But I didn’t bring a bastard into your house. Lord Stark could have easily done that once he returned from the South. Instead, I sneaked a Stark pup into the nursery, and placed him alongside your own, a babe very few know has been born, and even fewer have seen,” Lord Reed paused, “Now, why would I do that?”

The differential use of “bastard” and “Stark pup” to refer to the babe was not lost to Lord Tully.

“That’s what I want you to explain.”

“Tell me, my Lord, what was your first impression upon seeing the boy? You heard you had one grandson, and was then presented with two. What was the first thought that crossed your mind?”

“I thought Edmure had been mistaken. I thought that Cat gave birth to twins,” Hoster answered truthfully. His boy glared at him, upset at the ease with with his father would doubt him, but he paid him no heed.

“Just so.”

“So that’s your brilliant scheme?" he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm, "To pass him off as my Cat’s son, as Robb’s twin?” Lord Tully shook his head. “How does that help at all to clear up the issue of the succession?”

“Trust me, my Lord, Lord Stark is only trying to make the best out of a terrible situation. You see, his hold on the North isn't yet secure. He might have led them to war, but he's still young and inexperienced in the art of ruling. Some lords might bully him and try to take advantage of him for that, but he is not one to bend under pressure. What would those lords, foiled in their ambitions, do if they found out that there is another claimant to Winterfell, born of his elder brother? Lord Stark can't afford to have a succession crisis."

"He's a bastard."

"He's a child, and children are easy to manipulate no matter which side of the blanket they were born. Whoever held the regency would be the true ruler of the North. The boy would be the target for intrigue and unrest all his life only for existing. By raising him as Robb's younger twin, your grandson's inheritance would be safe from the scheming of opportunists and traitors, for the world would believe the babe to be the spare to Winterfell, instead of a competing claimant; and indeed, even Jon would believe as much.”

“'Jon'?”

“The boy. Lady Ashara didn’t give him a name when he was born, out of grief for her late lover. Lord Stark decided to name him after Lord Arryn.”

 _Fair enough._ Although that raised another question.

“Then why didn’t she raise the boy down at Starfall? The Dornish have always been soft on bastards.”

For the first time, Lord Reed frowned, looking out of place and unsure.

“Lady Ashara…” the crannogman began, pausedly. He had a sad look in his eyes. _Mayhaps she died on childbirth?_ , Hoster thought then discarded immediately. If that fate had befallen on a young noble lady such as Lady Ashara Dayne, he would have known already.

“Lady Ashara is… unhinged, my lord.” Howland finally said, ruefully. “Her grief for both her lover, her friends at King’s Landing and now her brother has proven to much to bear. She couldn’t stand to look at the babe anymore. He reminded her of all she had lost. When Lord Stark came down to Starfall to deliver Dawn to her, she near threw the babe at him, wailing that her child was dead, just as Brandon, just as Elia, and just as Ser Arthur,” Lord Reed finished, his voice filled with sorrow.

It was a feeling he shared. To think of the hauntingly beautiful Lady Ashara Dayne, barely eight and ten, driven to madness by woe and loss… It was a truly terrible thought, and one that almost made him shudder. It is said that women are the true victims of war, for in it they lose everyone they love: fathers, brothers, lovers and sons. Hoster now saw the truth of those words.

“I understand. But…” Hoster began.

“But?” Lord Reed prodded.

“But _why?_ Why should we bother ourselves to take care of the bastard? Why does he matter so much that we must go such lengths to ensure his safety? Why can’t we just drop him in a peasant household, and just keep close watch?” Hoster said. He knew very well why, though, but he needed to hear it from them.

“Because he’s Lord Stark’s kin. After everything that has happened, there is nothing that is more treasured by Lord Stark than his family. And now, for good or ill, he’s your family, too. Tell me, my Lord, do _you_ care about your family?”

 _Family, Duty, Honour_.

_Family._

Yes.

His family was his most precious possession. There was nothing Hoster wouldn’t do for his family, even if they despised him for it.

It felt utterly suicidal to embrace a bastard in his family to protect his grandson for being usurped. It went against everything he knew about bastards, about everything he knew of the line of succession, and the plan didn’t address the possibility of Robb dying prematurely, or what would happen to any other child that Cat might give birth to.

But it was a lose-lose scenario.

And staring at the little bastard Stark pup, he couldn’t help but feel pity for him. Born to the wrong people on the wrong side of the blanket, he was as good as an orphan. He had had no say in how he came into this world, and if he had been saddled with a bastard’s surname, he’d be a pariah by no fault of his own.

His heart softened, seeing him sleeping snugly alongside his trueborn cousin. The babes seemingly liked each other well enough. Try as he might, he couldn’t find in himself the will to tear both boys apart.

Hoster sighed as he made his decision. He finally sheathed his blade.

“Very well. I’m not happy with this arrangement, but he will stay here at the nursery, by Robb’s side. I will talk personally with the wetmaids and the maester. But it still remains to be seen whether Cat accepts him as her own, or casts him away. And should she reject him, there’s nothing we can do.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

“And rest assured, regardless of how his plan develops, I _will_ tear Lord Stark a new one for his folly,” Hoster snarled.

The crannogman smiled.

“He wouldn’t expect otherwise.”

 

* * *

  

That night he was unable to sleep, his mind dwelling in the events of the day. It was supposed to be just a straightforward homecoming: he would hug his children, as he had ached to do for weeks, and meet his newborn grandchild, his first. He would laugh with happiness, and would trade stories with his family. He would then go to bed and sleep fitfully, after a long time away from home.

And now, he was embroiled in the midst of a scheme to protect his grandson’s inheritance from his own bastard cousin, a babe just as newborn as him.

Many times through the night, Hoster had looked at the empty space beside him in which his wife used to sleep. _Oh, Minnie, you would know what to do. You always had a knack for this sort of things_ , he’d think. But he was a widower, his wife long dead and buried, alongside three of their children, all gone long before their time. Minisa wouldn’t get him out of this, nor would she help him find a solution.

Lord Stark had provided a solution with his crannogman, true, but it wasn’t a wise idea. It wasn’t even a good idea. In Hoster’s eyes, it was a folly of the highest order. Having a trueborn heir and a baseborn son growing up together was not only bound to sow resentment in the bastard, but would put him in the perfect position to drive a sword through the back of his brother. Time and again, he had seen legitimate heirs usurped by their bastard siblings.

Case in point: The Blackfyre Rebellions. Five wars, thousands of deaths, and a whole century of strife, thanks to a father who couldn’t (or just plain didn’t want to) keep his bastards away from his trueborns.

Then again, to be fair, Lord Eddard was no Aegon IV, and the babe, Jon, wasn’t his, but his late brother’s. Lord Stark, despite his youth, was already known as a dutiful and honourable man; If the child grew up to be anything like Lord Stark, then Robb and his rights would be safe. In such a case, Jon would never even think to usurp his “brother’s” inheritance to Winterfell, being raised as, and always thinking of himself as, a second son. Perhaps, should the lad desire glory, he could become a sellsword in Essos, or, as Starks are wont to do, forsake his place in the line of succession and ride for The Wall and take the Black so he can freeze his balls off… with honour.

But if he had inherited his father’s temper… then, needless to say, trouble would undoubtedly arise.

Hoster understood, and indeed, he mostly agreed with Lord Stark’s reasoning: the child needed a home, and he was kin; it was his duty to look after him. _Family, Duty, Honour_. _How come Stark understands that, but not_ him _?_ he thought darkly of his banished brother.

But despite being kin, and his Stark blood, the babe was still tainted, a bastard, and the threat of a disaster just waiting to happen. But he couldn't help but wonder... was the taint of bastardy truly in the blood? Were bastards truly scheming, ambitious and deceitful by nature? Many cases across history proposed otherwise: Aegon Targaryen's closest friend and most loyal follower, Orys Baratheon, had been, according to some, his half-brother. At the same time, in the North, Torrhen Stark had had Brandon Snow, who had volunteered to try and kill Aegon’s dragons; while his intelligence could (and should) be questioned, his bravery and steadfastness were clear to everyone. Or ser Raylon Rivers, a Bracken bastard who chose to surrender himself and his army when Daemon Targaryen took the rest of the House hostage during the Dance to avoid any harm befalling them, when he could have easily turned his cloak, let them die, and be rewarded as the new Lord of Stone Hedge.

And as a matter of fact, there wasn’t any need to go back centuries: Hoster’s own granduncle, ser Edrick Rivers, had had the road to usurp Riverrun paved when his trueborn brother, Lord Medgar Tully, died prematurely. But, instead, he had kept faith with his young nephews, protecting and counseling them as both came to hold the lordship. He had died when Hoster was still a young boy, but he recalled a kind old man, bald, portly, with a white beard, who used to sneak him sweets, and the first steel sword Hoster had ever had had been his gift.

If bastards were naturally wanton schemers, how come old uncle Edrick didn’t usurp his father and his late uncle when they were at their most vulnerable?

Mayhaps…

Mayhaps the taint of bastardry was in the mind? Mayhaps bastards were as they were not due to nature, but rather, their resentment and ambition were fostered by how people kept treating them like shit in their boots, as if they were not real people just because their parents were not married. Like many peasants who resent their lords, bastards despise their trueborn relatives for having luxuries they can only look at, but never have.

In the end, it all came down to that question which haunted his night: was bastardry in the blood or in the mind? Hoster understood that Lord Stark was betting on the latter idea, and hoped to erase his nephew’s “bastard” nature by raising him as his own, and while he could agree somewhat with that, Lord Tully wasn't all too keen to bet his grandchildren's lives on it.

Morning came not a second too soon for Hoster. As he dressed himself absentmindedly in a blue tunic with a red velvet doublet, someone knocked the wooden door excitedly.

 _Edmure_ , Hoster knew immediately. Good thing he had made sure to drill Edmure into not speaking a single word of what he had witnessed. Fortunately for him, the boy had been most excited to be privy to a "super secret" (his words), and promised to keep his mouth shut.

“Come in,” he called out, tired.

The door shot open, and his son near skipped into his chamber, blue eyes wide open and smiling ear to ear.

“Cat’s fever broke! She’s awake!” he announced happily, before turning on his heel and running back the way he came from.

 _She’ll be alright. My Cat will be alright,_ Hoster thought, at first elated and thanking every god he could think of, but soon enough, his pleasure started to sour and turn into dread.

The bastard.

Had she already shunned him? Recognised him as someone’s else child? Or, instead, had she fallen for the ruse, and decided to raise him as her own? To be frank, Hoster didn’t know what would be the worst alternative. It was a massive, unavoidable lose-lose situation for him, for Cat, for the Starks and for everyone involved. If only Brandon had had the self-restraint to keep his cock in his breeches, everything would be much easier for those he left behind after his death. He just hoped Eddard Stark had the faintest idea of what in the seven hells he was doing, deciding to raise his nephew as his own son.

 _He better._ Hoster thought somberly as he walked towards the nursery, each step increasing his foul humour. There was too much at stake to feel comfortable. He understood Eddard wanted to protect his nephew, his kin, but now he was also endangering his wife, his offspring and even himself, should the affair with the bastard turn sour.

He stopped once in front of the wooden door. He had dwelled on the matter all night, barely an eye shut. And now, he felt utterly small. The Lord of the Trident, head of one of the most powerful and influential Houses in the realm, felt insignificant, a mere pawn of the Gods. It was almost amusing how helpless he felt against a single baseborn child who could might as well die of a chill before he even learned to use a sword.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the nursery’s door and crossed the threshold, to face whatever the Gods had in store for him and his kin.

Immediately Hoster sighed in relief, for Cat was breastfeeding both children at the same time. Oddly enough, Edmure was nowhere to be seen.

“Cat,” Hoster called to his daughter, breathless.

“Father,” she answered. Her voice sounded weak and tired, and she looked utterly and completely lost as she juggled both babes, but she had spoken with the same stubborn steel underneath she had always had.

“It’s so good to see you,” he said, after a moment.

“Likewise, father. I’d stand and hug you, but I’m afraid I’m a tad busy,” Cat replied fondly. Instead, Hoster walked over to her and strongly pressed his lips against her forehead.  _Oh, my sweet Cat. And to think I almost lost you._

“Wouldn’t it be more sensible to have a wetmaid nurse them for you?” Lord Tully suggested, after a brief moment of silence.

His daughter refused sharply with her head, “I will nurse my children myself.”

She turned to look at both babes at her breasts, missing his father’s anxious stare. So far so good, but the moment of truth was approaching, steady and deadly like an invading army. Every beat of Hoster’s heart resonated in his ears, as single seconds lasted whole hours, and he dreaded the moment his daughter opened her mouth again.

“How long since I gave birth?” his daughter asked. His Cat, always the proper lady, looked so out of place after the birthing and the fever that had followed. Hoster understood that she had been out of it for weeks, and needed a quick run-down of what had happened recently.

“A fortnight, mayhaps a bit longer,” he answered tentatively, remembering the date Edmure had given him.

“Mother be good, I know I prayed I bear my lord husband many healthy children, but if I continue birthing them two at a time I won’t last long,” Cat chuckled softly.

Her innocent, light-hearted words struck Hoster like a trebuchet’s boulder.

_She thinks the child is hers._

“I can barely recall their names as it is,” She continued, not noticing her father’s relief.

“The eldest one, the one that looks like Edmure, is called 'Robb'.” Hoster gulped near-imperceptibly, “The other boy is 'Jon'.”

“ _I_ named them?” Cat asked.

“Yes; after our new king and Lord Arryn respectively, I presume.”

“No, it’s not that,” Cat shook her head, her disheveled auburn hair moving along, “I can barely remember anything since the first pains. Was I who named them? I sincerely can’t recall.”

“Edmure told me you did,” Hoster shrugged to hide how nervous he felt. “Maybe he lied, and named them himself; he has been looking after them while you’ve been… indisposed.”

Cat snorted rather unladylike.

“I wouldn’t expect Edmure to be any more clever when it comes to names. Although... I like them. Robb and Jon. It fits them, don’t you think?”

 _Mayhaps Daeron and Daemon would be a better fit, I’m afraid,_ Hoster thought.

“It does seem rather appropriate, in a way. The lordly name ‘Robert’ for the fair heir, and the simple and stout ‘Jon’ for the grim spare,” Hoster said, a hint of hostility sneaking into his tone. Maybe Cat had unknowingly accepted the bastard as her child, but he would never consider him his grandson.

Cat frowned rather dangerously at him, all her warmth gone. “Don’t call him that.”

Hoster was taken aback by his daughter’s sudden change in demeanour. “Uh… what?”

“‘Grim spare’,” Cat answered, dripping contempt at the word, “Do you forget, father, that my lord husband is also a grim-looking second child?” Hoster detected a small tinge of sadness in her voice. Of course; she had wanted the handsome firstborn. And yet, she had done her duty. She always did her duty. His sweet Cat. “I won’t treat my own like any less,” She finished.

 _Gods, she has completely bought it._ Hoster could scarce believe it. He had worried all night long, and how easily it had all turned out! Was her full-blown adoption of her nephew some sort of consequence of her newborn maternal instincts? Admittedly, he knew very little of women; Hoster thought they were the greatest mystery in the whole Known World, greater than whatever laid beyond the Sunset Sea or what was the mathematical logic behind their coin’s exchange value. Who knew how their minds worked? He wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, however.

 _At least it’s far better than what we had yesterday._ The boy might be seamlessly integrated into the Stark family after all, but Hoster’s fears regarding any possible usurpation of Winterfell by him, should he heed his innate bastardry, still remained. However, Hoster knew that it was rather likely he’d die before that issue was even remotely resolved. He was an ageing lord past his prime, and The Stranger would come sooner than later for him. Meanwhile, Cat and her husband were both barely past twenty. _I’ll take my blessings as they come_ , Hoster decided. _Besides, if the bastard ever tries to do something about it, I know my Cat will stop it before it gets out of control._

“Is something the matter, father?” Cat asked, shaking Hoster from his thoughts.

“Lord Eddard will be most pleased to know he has two healthy sons,” he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“I certainly hope so,” she answered, looking at both babes. Jon had stopped suckling, and instead had fallen asleep in her bosom, while Robb continued to feed rather hungrily.

Hoster could tell by her non-committal tone that she bore her husband no remarkable affection whatsoever. It was to be expected, as they had met, married and bedded all in the same day, and by dawn he was gone to continue the fight.

Furthermore, poor Lord Stark had a great disadvantage: he wasn’t his eldest brother. Despite being dead for almost over a year, Hoster believed that Cat still harboured feelings for the late Brandon Stark. He had been a gallant and handsome man, a master swordsman and a skilled rider.

 _And a monumental fool,_ thought Hoster. _We’re in this mess thanks to him._

Gods willing, his younger brother Eddard hadn’t his folly, but the whole plot he had come up regarding Brandon’s bastard spoke volumes of the man: while he was certainly a person who loved his family deeply and came up with the most unorthodox schemes to protect them, truth be told, he wondered if Lord Stark might be mad. To be fair with the man, after what happened to his kin, it was to be expected. But his ploys were rather high risk, and should they blow up in his face, he might end up dooming the same people he wanted to protect. His whole scheme had depended on them agreeing to it; what would he had done had they disagreed? Hoster wondered.

“Will Lord Stark come to Riverrun to pick us up, or shall we meet at Winterfell?”, Cat asked.

“I don’t know. To be frank, I have no idea where he is right now. Last I had heard, he had lifted the siege of Storm’s End, and taken the lords of the Reach’s oaths of fealty,” Cat seemed to mull on his words, as she put the sleeping form of Jon in his crib and shifted her focus to the still suckling Robb. She caressed the tuft of auburn hair in his head. “Mayhaps Lord Eddard will come here, but then to go North he would have to cross The Twins, and that’s something I don’t wish even to my worst enemy.”

Cat chuckled at that. No one at Riverrun had much, if any, sympathy for the Freys. “And who is that worst enemy?” she asked innocently.

“The same cunt who exacts the toll,” He snarled, earning another small giggle from his daughter.

He was exaggerating, of course. To consider someone an enemy was to consider him an equal, a threat and a rival. Lord Walder Frey was nothing of the sort. The man was a lowly creature, a dishonourable fiend and at worst, a very annoying nuisance. To consider him an enemy was to recognise him as an equal to the Tullys of Riverrun, and that was something Hoster would never do. He wouldn’t give that withering weasel the satisfaction.

“I hope he arrives soon. I wish to present him with his trueborn sons,” Cat said.

“I hope so too, sweet Cat. I hope so too.”

_If only to get the bastard out of my roof._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, The Wall of Text That Was Promised. TL;DR below.
> 
> PLAN:  
> Ned immediately sent Howland with Jon and a wetmaid racing north towards Riverrun. He knows his own child is soon to be born, and is betting on them arriving more or less just in time to pass Jon as a twin to his real son; he knows, however, that while that might be enough to fool the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, it won't fool the Tullys. At all.
> 
> Enter his second plan: namely, tell them Jon is Brandon's bastard, and just by birth, a major threat to Robb's inheritance, and he therefore cannot be raised as a bastard or HE would grow up believing himself as the true heir to Winterfell (and some Northern lords might even agree with him to further their own power). Instead, raising him as his brother would allow them to raise Jon as subservient to Robb, as well as remove any possible intrigue targeting them. Overall, it all comes down to nature/nurture. Ned is betting on nurture, and he's trying to persuade the Tullys to agree with him on that point.  
> As well, he's betting on the Tully family values (it's the first word of their motto, after all) to be strong enough for them to sympathise with the lengths he's going to take care of his kin and consider any type of kinslaying (even bound-by-marriage kin) beyond abhorrent, if murdering a babe didn't do the trick (and if that isn't a deal-breaker for them, it most certainly is for him). He also planned on using Catelyn's infatuation with Brandon as a means to get her to take him in.
> 
> However, Ned had NO idea that Catelyn's labour had been so bad that she had been completely out of it by the time Howland arrived with Jon soon after (around fourteen days after Robb's birth, give or take). That was sheer dumb luck, as well as the fact that Cat just assumed Jon was hers when she woke up.  
> Also, sure, Cat might have accepted Jon as her own (because she didn't know better). But Hoster and Edmure? They might cause some trouble further down the line.
> 
> This goes to show that Ned can only plan so much. The rest is just luck and hoping the other pieces fall in place. Sometimes, like this one, they do. Sometimes, they won't.
> 
> DISTANCES, TRAVEL SPEED, AND TIMING:  
> First things first, Jon is three weeks older than Robb in this time continuity to allow this to be feasible, but for all intents and purposes, he's still the "younger twin" (that way, Robb is still the heir) so it's not like it actually matters.  
> According to the calculations made by someone on the internet (I sincerely can't recall who or where; I copied his work into my drive [link below] for convenience, but ALL CREDIT GOES TO THEM), an average travelling speed on horse would be 3mph, 8 hours a day, so 24mpd. Pushing it a bit more to hurry, perhaps you could get to 30mpd. 
> 
> Using the map as reference, I guessed that the distance between Riverrun and the Dornish frontier is more or less the same between Moat Cailin and Castle Black (1000 miles), which, at the speed of 30 mpd it would take you around 32 days.
> 
> The Tower of Joy incident (and Jon's birth) happened in the 1/10/283; Robb was born on the 21/10/283; this chapter is the 2/11/283.
> 
> TL;DR: Ned had a high-risk/high-reward plan, and a plan B should it fail. However, he had amazing luck, and got an ever better outcome. Don't expect such luck to repeat itself. Edmure and Hoster might raise trouble further down the line, and his scheme, while it worked now, isn't guaranteed to last; indeed, major problem will arise out of it. Jon is older than Robb (in canon, it isn't clear who's the eldest).
> 
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1tZ8X35Av1bX5NdcA4NuKgceC_ZFkfbLXgbMwtd7k2Gw/edit?usp=sharing


	4. Duty [Ned II]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truth be told, I am not a prolific writer. Indeed, I advance slowly and constantly struggle to raise the word count into something worthwhile, so I'm worthless at filler and fluff. As I'm a Spaniard, I'm prone to repeat the same words over and over, and I'm unaware of GRRM's commonly known choice wording for the series as I've never read the books in English; the closest I've got is reading copious amounts of fan fictions, and, well, "the blind leading the blind" and all that.
> 
> Apologies for the short chapter, but I felt there was nothing else I could add to it without detracting from the central scene.

_I shouldn’t be in here._

He felt like an intruder, unworthy to call this place his own. It was supposed to be Brandon’s: the Lord’s Solar, Winterfell, even his wife. Everything had been for Brandon... and yet he now stood in his place, and Brandon was gone.

He caressed the oak desk in which his father used to work. He could still hear him whistling a tuneless song while he worked, showing his sons a Lord’s duty. Sitting in wooden chairs in a corner, watching his father working, Brandon usually yawned and drowsily held his head with his hands, bored beyond reason and no doubt thinking he could be doing far better things with his time, while Benjen entertained himself with Gods-knew-what this time.

Ned, instead, had paid close attention to every single detail of how Lord Rickard ran the North with a steady hand. How he sealed his letters. The order in which he checked the ledger. Every single comment regarding his vassals, no matter how off-handed, was noted and stored by Ned, for someday they might be of use.

In service of Brandon.

Everything for Brandon.

But now Brandon laid in the Crypts, and Ned was the Lord of Winterfell. Even as the stonemasons worked on his likeness, Ned couldn't help but feel that, any moment now, Brandon would crash through the door, and laugh at Ned's poor attempt at being a Lord, all the while Lyanna would giggle and father would shake his head in amused disapproval.

But they were all gone. Winterfell was a hollow home, and he couldn't shake the emptiness and loneliness he felt, no matter how much he wished to.

How long would it take for that sense of unease to leave?

Would it ever?

Standing among the ghosts, only two remained.

An awkward silence hung between the brothers, after almost a year and a half without any sort of contact. Benjen had grown much since they had last seen each other, becoming a tall and lanky young man, his first chin hairs sticking out rather unfashionably.

As was the custom, as he had been the only Stark in Winterfell, Benjen had taken the mantle of acting Lord and castellan, and it had been him who had presented the castle to Ned when he arrived home, newfound family and retainers in tow. Benjen had performed his role with great confidence and authority, and both brothers had embraced warmly after a long year without seeing each other.

But now, all on their own, he seemed uncomfortable.

Anxious, even.

Before the room’s temperature could get any lower, Ned broke the silence.

“What is it, Ben?”

Benjen gulped forcefully.

“It’s good to see you, Ned,” he began awkwardly.

Ned smiled warily. “Likewise, brother,” he said heartfeltly, “but I know there’s something bothering you, and smalltalk is not going to help it go away. So, tell me.”

If Benjen was put out by Ned’s straightforwardness, he didn’t show it. Instead, he just took a deep breath and said the six words Ned had been dreading to hear.

“I wish to take the Black.”

Ned sighed. He knew his little brother dreamed of joining the Night’s Watch, even since before the traveling black brother had made his plea at Harrenhal. Enraptured by the tales that Old Nan used to regale them with, Benjen, as a third son, could give himself the luxury of living his dreams of adventure beyond The Wall, at the price of removing himself from the line of succession to a castle he did not want and most likely would never hold.

But that had been so long ago. Things were different now. And yet, he still had the same desires.

“Why?”

“I have no place here, at Winterfell, nor do I desire a holdfast of my own. The Night’s Watch is an honourable organisation, and I know I could be of use there,” his younger brother answered truthfully, if not very convincingly.

“You could be of use here as well.”

“I’m redundant here,” Benjen shot back.

“Why in the Seven Hells would you be redundant?” Ned blinked. _What has gotten into him?_

“You have a son now, Ned, and a wife to give you more. You have no need for your younger brother.”

“I have _every_ need for my younger brother,” Ned sentenced sharply. “My children are barely a few moons old, and winter is coming. What would happen if a pox broke out in Winterfell? That would be the end of our family. We are the last Starks, brother. Only us. And we have to remain together.”

Only when he finished talking did he realise Benjen’s exact wording.

 _You have_ a _son._

“I have _two_ sons,” he attempted to correct forcefully, but Benjen would have none of it.

“Don’t lie to me, Ned.”

Ned felt like the air of the room had been completely sucked off.

“Lie to you?” he feigned ignorance, dread growing in his gut. _How…?_

“I know Jon is not yours.”

“... What are you even talking about?” he asked in what he hoped came across as utter stupefaction. However, he knew his face gave him away as a liar, and a poor one at that; he’d never quite known how to maintain a neutral expression. But he would learn as time went on. He had to.

“Jon. He is not your son. I knew as soon as I laid my eyes upon him,” Benjen repeated forcefully.

Silence fell upon the brothers as Ned processed Benjen’s words. He knew he was treading on dangerous ground, and the next minutes would be crucial, and he needed Benjen to be on his side. That much, at least, was true. He _needed_ his younger brother.

“Have you spoken of this with anyone else?” Ned asked carefully, looking around the room, searching for any weak spot that allowed any eavesdropping. It was an unnecessary task; his forefathers had designed the Lord’s Solar as a thick, closed fortress that allowed it to retain within its walls both warmth and intrigue. The only contact with the exterior would happen when the heavy oak doors were opened, or whenever servants brought coal and food.

“No.”

“Good,” Ned sighed. _I knew things were going far too well to last._ Truth be told, he was amazed at the fact that this ploy hadn’t yet exploded in his face. Far too many knew about it, and he couldn’t control the tongues of idle servants in the middle of their drinks.

 _Well, they_ believe _they know something._ Good thing he had devised a safety net in which to fall back upon. _As long as everyone believes he is Brandon’s..._

“You don’t deny it,” Benjen said.

“He’s our kin," Ned answered evenly.

“That much is obvious,” Benjen near rolled his eyes. “But he’s not of your seed.”

“No,” Ned sighed heavily. “He’s not.”

Benjen nodded, but he didn't look satisfied at his vindication; rather, he looked even more worried than before. As if the confirmation made his worst fears come true. “What is your plan?” he asked after a moment of silence.

“You've already seen most of it. I will raise him as my own legitimate child. He’ll have the name and life his birth forbade him. He will take the place befitting my second son in the line of succession.” Ned paused, then added a small, “Sorry about that.”

“I’ve never wanted to be a lord, so I don’t mind,” Benjen waved off his apology. “More importantly, who else knows about this?”

“Besides you? Lords Reed and Dustin, and Lord Tully and his intimate circle.”

Benjen frowned. “That’s far too many.”

“Trust me, if it were for me, none would know. But Howland arrived a fortnight after Robb’s birth; the maester and the wetmaids already knew Catelyn had given birth to just one boy. Trying to trick them otherwise would have been folly.”

“Even more of a folly that this whole scheme you came up with?” Benjen asked pointedly.

Ned raised his eyebrows. He had to concede that. His plan had been utterly suicidal, made in the spur of the moment, fueled by his grief and rage. True, he trusted Howland implicitly, and he knew that if Jon was under any harm, the crannogman would do even the impossible to keep him safe. But it hinged on far too many variables he couldn’t control nor influence, and the mere fact it hadn’t crashed and burned already was nothing short of a miracle.

 _I was far too careless,_ Ned knew. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

“Do you trust them?” his brother asked. “The maester and the wetmaids?”

“No, but Lord Tully does.”

“Do you trust Lord Tully?”

“No, but what option do I have? I’m passing Brandon’s son as his own grandson, so–”

“Wait, Brandon’s?”

“Yes. Jon is Brandon's and Ashara Dayne's,” Ned explained, but he couldn't resist a wince. He was on the road to recovery, but that wound had yet to fully heal.

Benjen stared at him blankly.

“No. He’s not.”

Ned sighed in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What are you talking about?”

“She was my sister too, Ned,” Benjen said quietly.

Absolute silence. Seconds seemed to stretch into hours as Ned carefully mulled Benjen’s words.

“How do you know?” Ned asked dangerously after a moment. _And if he knows… Who else might?_

“I was a witness. I was there. I… I was there when they ran off,” Benjen explained softly. He sniffed as his eyes watered. “They… They told me everything. That they loved each other. That they wanted to be with one another... And that I was to tell father. To avoid any rash actions…”

“... And you didn’t,” Ned sentenced numbly. His blood had frozen. Truthfully, he probably would’ve felt more warmth if pure ice had been flowing through his veins.

“I didn’t,” Benjen sniffed. “I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Father was so, so enraged when he found out Lyanna was gone... I… I was too scared to tell him the truth. I was afraid he would take it out on me...”

“... So you kept quiet.”

“... Aye...”

Slowly, the numbness and cold faded away, as Ned’s blood started warming, then boiling with the fires of rage. His hand clenched into a fist. His vision was turning red. His whole body shivered in ill-repressed wrath.

His father had been burned alive. Brandon had been strangled while he was forced to watch. The Arryns and countless of others, highborn and lowborn alike, cut down in the battlefield, their bodies left to rot while the ravens fed on them. The Targaryens had been nearly exterminated, not even the innocent children spared from the sword. Ser Arthur Dayne had been killed by trickery. Lyanna had bled out in childbirth.

And all because of his stupid, _craven, imbecile little brother who could not be bothered to open his Gods-forsaken mouth because he had been too scared of–_

Ned smashed his fist against the desk with all his strength. The wood boomed resoundingly, splinters breaking out and embedding into his knuckles. Blood started oozing out of his wounds, but he paid it no mind.

They were all gone. All of this bloodshed, because of one stupid child who could not open his mouth when he had to.

True to form, his brother kept silence. The atmosphere of the room was heavy, and hard to breathe in.

Ned raised his eyes to look straight into Benjen's, but the boy avoided visual contact at all costs. He was crying. But Ned couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for the weeping child in front of him.

_What does he know of suffering? Of fear, of pain, of sorrow? He sat out the whole war. He wasn't at the Trident. He didn't see King's Landing burn._

_And he has more blood in his hands than anyone else._

“The war… the whole war… it’s all my fault,” Benjen said after a moment, his voice thick with regret and sorrow.

“Aye,” Ned growled, furious. “It is.”

“That’s… That's why I must join the Night’s Watch. I _must,_ ” he said, lowering his head. “There’s no other place for me. I’m a criminal, far worse than any murderer or rapist. I can’t atone for my crimes here. I must pay my penance in the Wall.”

“No. You won’t,” Ned glared coldly at Benjen, who was taken aback by the vehemence in his elder brother’s tone. “The realm bled because of you. Half of our family is dead because of you. We are the last Starks left standing _because of you_. And you want to go to freeze off up at the bloody Wall? No. I will not allow it.”

“But I–”

“You will marry. You will have children. Three children. One for father, one for Brandon and one for Lyanna. You will repay their deaths by fathering new Starks. Then, and only then, will you be able to leave to the Wall if you still wish to do so. That is your penance.”

“There’s honour to be had at the Wall…”

“I couldn’t give less of a shit about the honour of the Night’s Watch. Your family needs you. I don’t care for your wants. You _will_ do your duty. That’s final.”

Benjen frowned, shaken by what he had heard. “I… _‘couldn’t give less of a shit about the honour’_...? What _happened_ to you?”

“A war. One that wouldn’t have even happened if you had opened your fucking mouth when you had to. If only…”

Ned sighed, trying to calm himself. Then he glared at Benjen as he continued, mustering every shred of authority he could into his voice. “But there’s no use weeping about what-could-have-beens. You will marry and father children. Three Starks are dead because of you,” – Benjen nodded stiffly, full of regret – “and you will pay for their deaths with new Starks. You will stay at Winterfell, at the very least, until your third child is born. Only afterwards, will you be able to do as you please. Are we clear?”

“I… yes,” Benjen said finally, defeated. “I will do as you say, Ned.” He gulped. “Do… do I get a choice in who I get to marry, at least?”

“As long as you do not use that as an excuse to stall endlessly, yes.” A gruff black trout came to mind. “Why, do you have someone in mind?”

“No,” Benjen answered truthfully.

“Good, because I do. I presume you’ve heard of Lady Dacey Mormont, Lord Jorah’s cousin. She’s more or less around your own age.”

Benjen mused about it for a few seconds, still downcast.

“Is this arranged?”

“We spoke with Lord Jorah about the possibility, aye; however, we wanted your consent before we were to commit to actually arranging anything.”

“I see...”

“Do you find it disagreeable?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s a good match, the one you’re proposing. It’s just…” Benjen paused, the struggle to open up clear in his face. “I never wanted to marry and settle down, Ned. That was Brandon’s thing. Yours too, perhaps. But it was not for me.”

“I know. And I’m sorry for this, Ben. I truly am,” Ned replied softly. “I take no pleasure from doing this, believe me.” He stood up and walked towards Benjen, and put his hand in his shoulder in reassurance. Grey eyes met blue ones. “But we are all that’s left of House Stark. And we have to rebuild. But we can't do that without the other. Don't you remember what father used to tell us? When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," despite himself, Ned managed a weak smile. "And winter is coming.”

Ben sniffed. “Aye,” he said, straightening and putting up a very weak, yet honest, smile. “I understand. I’ll do my part, brother. I’ll marry the Mormont girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that Benjen is, at best, 14 years old.
> 
> In canon, we've never heard why Benjen joined the Night's Watch. All we know is the following Word of God:  
> "(...) It was within a few months of Ned's returning. The reason being that there always was a Stark at Winterfell, so he had to stay there until Ned returned. GRRM refused to say the reason why Benjen had to join the NW." [link below]  
> Which obviously means there's something fishy about it,  
> I've read some interpretations that he joined the NW out of guilt and regret, because he knew about R+L=J, and I went with that.  
> However, Ned is having none of that.
> 
> Also, yay, Dacey Mormont! Bring on the House Stark OCs and a positive role model for Arya that validates and encourages her to follow her dreams!
> 
> https://www.westeros.org/Citadel/SSM/Entry/ConQuest_Kansas_City_MO_May_27_294


	5. Family [Catelyn I]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the following wall of text, I adress the central point of most of the feedback from last chapter:  
> I agree with all of you: of course Benjen is **NOT** responsible for the war, **AT ALL, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE, NO MATTER HOW ONE MAY TRY TO SPIN IT** ; the responsibility lies with Rhaegar & Lyanna being moronic (20%), Brandon being a dumbass (10%), and Aerys II being Aerys the fucking II (70%). Not with Benjen, and even if he did have a share of blame, it would be negligible. However, what he _is_ , and what he _feels_ he is are very different.  
> *  
> Let's look at the bigger picture for a moment: even if this incendiary event hadn't happened, at this point war was inevitable. Not only was Aerys too far gone, but the Targaryen dynasty as a whole had been steadily growing weaker for decades, and the Lords (those who backed the Blackfyres, one example; The Defiance of Duskendale, another) were growing restless and unruly. The Targaryens were increasingly unable to assert their power over the Lords, the very reason why Aegon V attempted hatching new dragons at Summerhall, and it was just a matter of time until there was another rebellion that toppled them (which was exactly what happened).  
> We also know that Rhaegar was most likely plotting to depose Aerys, which would have set a very dangerous precedent (just imagine what the Freys would do with such a precedent coming from the Iron Throne itself!) for Westerosi politics.  
> And what about whatever the Great Houses were planning that required Lannisters, Tullys, Baratheons, Starks and Arryns being all allied to each other?  
> *  
> But Benjen, a boy entering his teens and unaware of the bigger picture, feels like he could have made a difference by speaking up (he wouldn't have, but that's what he feels), yet he didn't. So he _feels_ he's guilty for all that happened afterwards, and he blames himself for it.  
> In Ned's case, he's weary and traumatised by the horrors he's seen (and inflicted) during the war, and finding out that there could have been a chance, no matter how minimal, to avoid all of this if Benjen had spoken up (as I said, there wasn't), if not stopping the war, at least keeping his family alive... Well, of course he's going to have a visceral knee-jerk reaction.  
> Overall, Benjen is an objectively guiltless but convenient and attractive scapegoat for both Starks. Because he knew and he's alive, while Lyanna and Brandon, who objectively are guilty, aren't. But as scifiromance pointed out in the comments, "[their] death is too raw for them to allow themselves anger at [them] right now".  
> It's not a rational thing, what they do blaming Benjen. Anyone, including them, should they stop to think about it, would realise the blame lies squarely with Brandon, Lyanna, Rhaegar and Aerys. But we're talking about raw, visceral emotions of grief, anguish and guilt brought by the death of half of your family and a devastating war that killed hundreds of thousands of innocents. Rationality has no place here.  
> *  
> Only the passage of time will allow them to look back, reflect upon it, and acknowledge that their siblings were kind of morons that signed their death sentence by no one's fault but their own, something that Ned sorta does when he tells Arya _"You have a wildness in you, child. The 'wolf blood,' my father used to call it. Lyanna had a touch of it, and my brother Brandon more than a touch. It brought them both to an early grave."[1]_ , although, note, he still doesn't blame them explicitly, only indirectly (I.e. "his alcoholism killed him" instead of "he drank himself to death". Note the difference).  
> They just CANNOT bring themselves to blame their dead siblings for their role on all of this.
> 
> Keep in mind that we, as the audience, have the benefit of the fourth wall and the perspective it allows us. The characters themselves, however, don't have that luxury. I'm trying to write the events as they _perceive_ them, instead of as they _objectively_ are.

The day she had married Lord Eddard Stark in the sept of Riverrun, Catelyn didn’t quite know what to make of it.

Long had she dreamed of marrying the heir of Winterfell, a dashing, charming and chivalrous man who had made himself the owner of her heart at first sight. Despite being barely two years older than her, he towered above most men. Tall and muscular, he was a man so sure of himself that he could probably take down giants. He was everything a young maiden could dream her future husband to be.

And he was dead.

Murdered barely a fortnight before they were due to be wed.

And in his place, she had married his younger brother, for an alliance with Winterfell was far too important to allow it to die as well. Shorter, grim, and stoic, Eddard Stark had none of his late brother’s magnetic charisma. His grey eyes had none of the vivaciousness his elder brother’s had.

But she knew now that she wouldn’t have it any other way.

For underneath his gruff and cold exterior, her Ned was warm and loving. He was attentive and respectful to her in a way his brother had never been. The cold, hard north froze the false courtesies of the south, a language Brandon had been so fluent in she had barely even noticed how little he cared for what she said and thought.

Ned, however, deeply valued her advice, and in more than one occasion, she had found him actually following it when applicable. She knew that she was one of the fortunate few ladies whose husbands actually cared to listen to their words. She knew her husband was something else when he had built her a sept to worship in, despite no one else in Winterfell following the faith of the south.

But he had gone further and beyond and named her, instead of his younger brother (as Catelyn had expected), designated regent of Winterfell and The North, should he meet an untimely demise. Her, a southron. The vote of confidence it carried… it had been truly overwhelming.

They had made little Sansa on the desk that night, Catelyn reflected with amusement, as she held her beautiful baby daughter in her arms, and watched her boys throw snowballs at each other on the courtyard.

They hadn’t married out of love, but she could feel it as it grew between them. The awkwardness of supper had been replaced by bliss and laughter, and no longer did they keep to their separate bedchambers.

Indeed, she thought as she caressed her swollen belly, while their first time had been a solemn affair, done out of duty and nothing more, now there were times she felt like she had to be physically restrained to stop her from jumping his bones. More than once she had had to leave to her chambers in the midst of court, far too aroused to keep a straight face while her Ned ruled the North.

And to think she had been in love with his brother. She had been so childish, far too enamoured with what she saw to realise what he was. A brave and charismatic man, to be sure, but an immature lecher and hot-headed fool.

She knew Ned would disapprove of her choice of words, and protest that his brother had been a good, noble man, and perhaps he had, but Brandon had callously dishonoured her by bringing a bastard into this world, all the while he was still betrothed with her, and that was something she wasn’t inclined to forgive. Perhaps she was being unfair with him, unconsciously searching for reasons, valid or not, to hate him so she could move on from her silly crush on him, but she realised she didn’t really care.

She remembered how her father had taken her to a side while they were preparing the carriage for the trip to Winterfell, barely a day after her new husband had arrived, a pensive look on his face.

“My sweet Cat, there’s something you have to know,” he had said.

“What is the matter, father?”

“There is no easy way to tell you this. I’m sorry,” she remembered the struggle in his face.

“What are you talking about?”

“Brandon Stark had a bastard.”

At the moment, it had felt like a punch to the gut. She had struggled to keep a straight face and not break down crying.

“W–what?”

“Before he died. He laid with Lady Dayne at Harrenhal and got her with child.” Because of course he did. The man had no desire in marrying Catelyn, instead preferring to chase skirts after skirts with no care in the world. But, foolish as she had been, she had been heartbroken to find out that the man she loved did not care for her in the same way.

“Who… Who told you that?”

“Lord Stark himself. He found the boy in Starfall. He told me he would look after him.”

“W–where is he? The b–boy?”

Her father had kept quiet then; perhaps it had been barely a few seconds, or maybe minutes, but it felt like the longest time. Eventually, he had mustered a soft, sad smile, and answered.

“I don’t know. But if he ever appears, I know you will be able to handle it,” and he had hugged her tightly. “Take care, Cat. My sweet, sweet Cat.”

And they had left.

She had then decided to ask her husband about it, but it took months before she could muster the courage to face the cold block of ice given human form that she had married. Bastards were commonplace, she knew; many, if not most lords bedded other women than their lawfully wedded wives. But was she really being self-entitled by wanting to marry a lord who kept faith with her? Was that really too much to ask?

In the end, she had married one who did just that, and much, much more. How silly had she been, thinking her Ned as unfeeling and cold.

“My Lord…” she had asked during supper one night, a few weeks before Benjen Stark’s wedding to the surprisingly beautiful sword maiden of Bear Island. Her brother-in-law, a moody and withdrawn youth, had just retired to his bedchamber, leaving her alone with her husband.

“Ned,” he had corrected her gently, before raising his cup to his mouth.

“Ned...” At the time the name felt awkward in her mouth, yet now her heart warmed at it. "Is it true that Brandon had a bastard?”

Ned spat his drink. If she had doubted her father, that had confirmed it completely. At the moment, she had thought her whole life had come crashing down. Now, she reflected, that moment had been the true beginning of it all. The moment she had finally let go of her late betrothed.

“Wha– what makes you say that?” he had coughed and hacked, gasping for air.

“Is… Is it true?” she had asked instead.

“My lady,” he had said, slowly regaining his composure, “my brother would never…”

“Please don’t lie to me,” she had pleaded.

After a moment of silence (and a few coughs), Ned had sighed. “Aye. He did.”

“I… I see,” Catelyn had nodded sadly at the confirmation.

“Who told you?”

“My father.” _I should send him a raven_ , Catelyn mused while she idly caressed baby Sansa’s auburn hair, her mind in that night five years ago.

“Did… did he say anything else?” Ned had looked so shaken that, looking back on it, it was amusing. The bastard was his brother’s, after all. He had done nothing wrong.

“That you would look after him.”

Ned had muttered something under his breath, low enough she hadn’t been able to hear it. “Anything else?” Ned had then asked, barely above a whisper.

“No, he didn’t,” she had answered honestly. Her husband had looked relieved at that. “Is that true, as well? Are you looking after him?”

“Aye, I am,” Ned had replied firmly, in a tone that admitted no argument. “Legitimate or not, he still has my blood.”

“Is he here?" Cat had to ask. "In Winterfell?”

Her husband had looked ashamed at that. “No. No, he’s not.”

“Where is he, then?” she had asked out of honest curiosity, but her husband had shot her a wary look, his grey eyes cold as stone.

“Away from courtly intrigue. He’s safe, and he will live a good life, and that’s that,” he had sentenced.

And indeed, that had been that.

Since then, she had been able to pry further details from her husband. He had refused to disclose any further details because he had been worried she would try to dispose of him as a way to ensure her children’s safety; and true enough, while she worried at times and dreaded the day a Snow would ride through the gates and tried to claim Winterfell as his, she would _never_ harm a child. Ned had told her he had left the boy in a peasant household, to be raised as their own, and constantly kept tabs on him; however, he had never come close to telling her even in which of the Seven Kingdoms was the boy located. While she understood his reluctance, and desire to protect the boy, at times it was frustrating how stubborn he was in keeping it a secret.

"Mother!" a boy's voice shouted from below the ramparts, shaking her out of her daze and returning her to the present day.

Looking up to her from the courtyard was her firstborn, Robb, his auburn mop spattered with the summer snow. Once he had gotten his mother's attention, he turned towards Jon.

"What is wrong with him?" he asked her.

His mismatched twin was standing perfectly still near him. If it weren't for the rose tint in his cheeks, Cat might have mistaken the boy for one of the statues from the crypts, or might have thought that he had frozen solid, or something like that.

Cat chuckled. For some reason, her second son had gotten into his head the idea that, if he stood perfectly still, he would become invisible to the eye. And so, now he was a constant fixture all across Winterfell, trying to eavesdrop the happenings of the castle. He was as undetected and silent as a ghost.

Or, at least, that was what he thought. Nobody had yet had the heart to tell him otherwise.

Robb frowned.

“Jon, what are you doing?” he shot at his brother.

Jon didn’t even blink. Robb stared at him confused for a few seconds, then turned again towards his mother up in the ramparts. His unsure face spoke for him. Cat simply shrugged. _He’s alright, it’s all part of the game_ , she conveyed.

“Jon!” Robb shouted with impatience.

“You can’t see me,” Jon muttered through clenched teeth. “I’m invisible.”

“No you’re not, stupid,” the elder twin rolled his eyes.

“Shut up, yes I am!” the younger one hissed, completely unaware that, even if he _was_ invisible, he had already blown his cover.

Robb frowned, and after a moment, knelt, formed a snowball between his hands, and nailed Jon straight in the face with it.

Cat sighed heavily as Jon jumped onto Robb and both children began fighting clumsily in the floor (they were only five years of age, after all). She handed over baby Sansa to a nearby maid with instructions to take her to the nursery, and started walking down the stairs hurriedly towards the courtyard. To her dismay, she realised her baby bump was starting to become a major nuisance to her movement.

“Robert Stark!” she barked.

Her firstborn’s face paled, swiftly dropping his chokehold on Jon.

“Uh-oh.”

“Haha, you’re in trouble,” Jon snickered from the ground. Robb glared at him with anger.

“You too, young man!” Catelyn scolded him. Jon’s face immediately dropped, like a soft and adorable puppy had been beheaded with a blunt axe right in front of him. Now it was Robb’s time to snicker at his twin’s expense.

“But it’s his fault, not mine!” Jon whined, shooting up to his feet.

“He’s lying!” Robb shouted.

“No, you’re lying!”

“I don’t care whose fault it is,” Catelyn interrupted them both sternly before they resumed their fighting; both children immediately stood at attention, looking at her wide eyed. At times Cat wondered if they weren’t, in fact, identical twins with just different colours. She was exaggerating, of course, but the fact remained that their resemblance was so extensive that at times she would get confused with who was who, their distinctive facial features lost beneath their shared behaviour and body language. “You will stop fighting right now!” she continued.

“But mother!” the whined on unison, before shooting a stink look at the other.

“Do you want me to confine you to your bedchambers and forbid you from playing with the other, or will you make your peace yourselves?” she raised an eyebrow.

Both boys looked at each other warily. Sure, they might be fighting now, but they still were best friends, and being grounded in their respective rooms for the rest of the day sounded, to a five years old’s mind, like a fate worse than death.

“I’m sorry,” they both said in unison, averting each other’s gaze. They clearly didn’t mean it, but they didn’t want to be grounded.

Cat raised an eyebrow. “Look at each other’s eyes and actually mean it.”

Both children groaned, and looked straight at each other.

Jon stuck his tongue out at Robb.

“Boys…” Cat said in warning, before Robb could respond in kind. However, at the thought of facing their mother’s anger, both boys looked down, chastised.

“I’m sorry,” Robb muttered.

“Me too,” Jon said back.

After a few seconds staring at them long and hard, Cat nodded at them, a slight smile in her face. “Very well. Off you go.”

Both boys ran off immediately to entertain themselves doing Gods-knew-what, laughing and yelling all the way. She turned to the nearby guardsmen tasked with keeping an eye on the lordlings. “Should they start fighting again, take them to their separate bedchambers.”

“Errr, they share the same bedchamber, m’lady,” Heward scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.

 _… Oh. Right._ “Then take Robb to his lord father and Jon to me,” she ordered without missing a beat. “I shall be in the nursery.”

“Aye, m’lady”, the guardsmen nodded.

“That’s not fair!” Robb shouted in the distance, upset at whatever change of rules Jon had done in the midst of their game to gain the upper hand. However, instead of fighting over it, Jon simply allowed Robb to do the same in compensation. Cat couldn’t avoid a smile.

Her twins had grown so fast. She felt like it had been barely a fortnight since she had nearly died bringing them to this world.

Robb, her eldest, looking so much like his uncle Edmure, was outspoken and responsible, if a bit stubborn and prone to take himself a bit too seriously, as he was learning what it meant to be the firstborn and tried his best to live up to his duties.

Jon, on the other hand, was cheerful and silly, always playing games and having fun, though at times he had certain bursts of melancholy and contemplation that Cat had come to associate as part and parcel of the Stark bloodline; her husband had them from time to time, and her goodbrother lived brooding in the forests.

While she tried her best at avoiding to play favourites, she had to admit that Jon held a special place in her heart. If she was completely honest, it was hard to say why; but as much as she held a special love for Robb for being her firstborn and for Sansa for being her baby girl and her youngest (so far), there was something about Jon that just outmatched the other: he was free. After all, Robb had inherited the duties and the expectations, while Jon could be whatever he wanted to be, for he was not set on inheriting Winterfell, something she prayed he would never do.

Her firstborn would one day be a great Lord, ruler of the largest of the Seven Kingdoms. Her daughter would marry a great Lord and rule his castle, and her sons would be knights and princes and lords. But Jon was the one who was truly blessed, for he was free to follow his heart wherever it took him.

And Cat couldn’t be happier for him.

 

* * *

 

She wasn’t surprised to see her goodsister and her nephew at the nursery.

Little Anton Stark was barely over three years of age, and he looked the perfect mix between wolf and bear; a northman to the bone, he was dark haired, long faced, sturdy and brown eyed. He had inherited his father’s brooding disposition, but you would never know given how he doted on his baby cousin, all laughs at the buffoonish faces he made for her as his mother, Dacey Mormont, looked at them.

It never stopped marvelling Cat how beautiful and graceful Dacey Mormont looked when she dressed as a proper lady, instead of the riding leathers and chainmail she was wont to wear. With her love for sparring, vivaciousness and imposing height, at times it was easy to forget she was only eight and ten years old.

“What is the occasion?” Cat asked with curiosity. Such a sight wasn’t very common.

“The rest of my wardrobe is either with the washerwomen or the tailors,” Dacey shrugged, earning a chuckle from her sister-in-law. “Far too tattered and mudded to be worn at the moment. And you? You’re as big as a whale!” _Wow, rude_ , Cat thought as she caressed her belly, self-conscious of its size. “How long until the baby is due?”

“Maester Luwin says that it should be within a few moons.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Absolutely a boy,” Cat scoffed. “No girl kicks like that; he’s going to be a knight.”

“Hmmm, you would think so,” Dacey replied, eyebrows raised, “but girls in the belly can be as rowdy as any boy, or maybe even more. Just ask my mother.”

“Sansa was nothing like this,” Cat protested lightly.

“Aye, but Sansa is even more of a southron than you, all soft and delicate. You’re carrying a little she-wolf there.”

The words were meant to be throwaway, but struck a nerve; despite her years at the North and her best attempts, northerners still considered her as a southron flower, pretty to look at but worthless in the cold. True, northerners were a withdrawn people, distrustful of foreigners, but it hurt to see that, despite being the Lady of Winterfell for almost six years, they had yet to see her as anything more than their Lord’s southron wife. As if her opinion counted less because she wasn’t born in the North.

To her credit, Dacey seemed to recognise her faux-pas.

“Err, no offence intended, my lady,” she apologised sheepishly.

“None taken,” Cat said evenly, though not entirely honestly. “And you, sister? When are you due to have another child?”

“Let me get with one first,” her goodsister snarked.

“And what are you waiting for?” Cat asked with a smirk.

“For my husband to stop either brooding in the Godswood or hunting in the Wolfswood for more than five minutes, to begin with,” Dacey rolled her eyes in frustration.

Cat knew her goodsister’s gripes all too well.

Benjen Stark was a rare sight in Winterfell, despite living there—a withdrawn and lonely man that preferred the company of the woods and the wilderness than that of his lovely wife. At first, Cat had suspected Benjen preferred a man’s company, though further conversation with Dacey disclosed the opposite. Still, for some reason he rarely ever did the deed, and at times he even interrupted himself in the midst of it, stopping and abandoning the bedchamber, leaving behind a very unsatisfied and frustrated wife. The fact that he had managed to father a son was almost a miracle, given how little time he spent with his wife.

“Every night he complains he’s too tired to do anything, but come dawn and he’s back off to the woods again,” Dacey complained. “The worst part is that he never allows me to accompany him,” the girl fumed. “What, is he afraid his wife is going to ride better than him? Hunt more game? He knows I enjoy riding and hunting as much as he does, but he still refuses to take me with him. I swear, at this rate I should just beat him into submission…”

“You’d win,” she pointed out earnestly. While Benjen Stark was no poor fighter by any measure, he was thin and lanky, while his wife was tall, muscular and aggressive. He’d be overwhelmed within seconds.

“Of course I would,” Mormont sighed. “He grieves for his family. I understand that. I’ve tried being patient with him and give him space, but this is getting ridiculous,” she said, looking at the floor. After a moment of silence, she spoke again, her voice weaker than Cat had ever heard it. “What am I even doing? I shouldn’t have married.”

“Don’t say that,” Cat hurried to Dacey’s side, hugging her tightly. The northwoman didn’t budge at her embrace.

“It’s true, though. I wasn’t made for this sort of thing. I’m a Mormont. I battle, and hunt, and ride. I’m not cut out for marriage. I’ve never been. What was I thinking? That _I_ could be the wife of a Stark? Childish folly,” Dacey shook her head, her voice reaching the breaking point.

Cat wracked her heard, thinking of where to begin to respond. Then, remembering where they were, she spoke.

“But your child. Don’t you love him?”

Dacey looked up to Anton, who had fallen asleep while hugging baby Sansa in her crib. She smiled lovingly, a tear rolling down her cheek. “Aye, I love him, so, so much. But…”

“‘But’ nothing,” Cat interrupted her. Dacey frowned, but Catelyn didn’t care. _I’m the one talking now._ “You say marriage isn’t your thing, and it never has. But I’ve seen you with Anton. I’ve seen how you hold him, how you look at him when he’s playing in the snow. You’re a fighter, yes. A brawler. A warrior. But you’re also a mother, and a damn good one at that. I know marriage isn’t easy,” _Try still being in love with your husband’s late brother, and you’ll see what I’m talking about,_  “but that doesn’t mean we should give up when the odds are against us. No. You don’t have to stop being a warrior to be a mother. You don’t have to be one or the other. You can be both, Dacey. And if Benjen doesn’t like it…” Cat trailed off.

“... And if Benjen doesn’t like it?” Dacey prodded, her voice soft with emotion.

“I’ll join you in beating him in the courtyard,” she sentenced, so sure of herself she earned a chuckle from her fellow lady Stark.

 

* * *

 

“You should speak with your brother,” she commented later to her husband as they dined in her bedchambers.

Ned sighed sadly.

“I’ve tried. It’s of no use. Despite my best attempts, Benjen feels like he does not belong in Winterfell.”

Cate frowned. “He’s a Stark. If he belongs anywhere, it is in Winterfell.”

“Aye. But he’s a third son. He has always wanted to leave for the Wall, to explore what lies beyond. He never cared much for anything else. Benjen feels confined and without any real purpose here, beyond breeding like a hound.” _Not unlike many ladies across the Seven Kingdoms,_ Cat thought at that. “He’s adrift in a life he never wanted, and hunting and praying are a poor substitute for what lies beyond the Wall,” Ned spoke, deep regret in his voice.

“But what about Dacey? Does he not love her?”

“He likes her. He’s fond of her. But love her? No.”

“Couldn’t he try, mayhaps, to include her in his hunting? Or try to be a better husband, at least? Dacey feels frustrated and scorned, she told me herself this eve. And you know that woman; I’m willing to bet she’s an even better rider and hunter than your brother.”

“There’s no bet to be made, of course she is,” Ned chuckled, before sighing sadly for his brother. “He feels... unworthy, I think.”

“Unworthy? Of what?” Cat frowned in confusion.

“Of being happy.”

“Don’t you think he’s exaggerating? I understand he feels without purpose in Winterfell, yes, but he’s denying himself of the possibility of finding one by being so withdrawn and surly. He’s wasting a possibility of finding happiness with his wife, Ned,” she said worriedly.

“Do you think I haven’t told him that?” Ned chuckled wryly, not a single shred of humour in him. “No matter how much I try, I cannot get through to him. He’s as unassailable as the Eyrie.”

Cat pondered on that as she drank from her tea. She could very much feel her husband’s grief at his brother’s depressed behaviour. Ned loved his only remaining brother very much, and Cat could only imagine how she would feel in his place.

No, she didn’t imagine the feeling. She knew it all too well.

“Speaking about the Eyrie, have you spoken recently with Jon?” At her husband’s blank stare, she clarified, “Jon Arryn, dear.”

“Oh. For a moment there I thought you were referring to our Jon…” Ned muttered, before answering, “no, I have not. Why?” Suddenly, his eyes lightened in understanding. “Oh, the babe! Right, right. This has not really been my brightest day. Was he already born? I should write him a congratulating letter.”

Cat shuffled herself awkwardly in her seat. “Don’t. Lysa had another miscarriage.”

“Oh.” After a small moment of silence, Ned frowned. “That’s the fourth time in a row.”

“It is,” Cat nodded with regret. Her younger sister, always so timid and delicate. How was she coping with such tragedy? Was she doing any better than Benjen Stark was doing with his? Unfortunately, it was doubtful; Cat recalled how, when they were little girls, Lysa was so sensitive she was prone to long afternoons of crying at any tragedy, real or imagined. _At least she has Petyr with her in King’s Landing_ , she supposed. A friend’s shoulder in which to cry upon was the best consolation.

Before they could continue, however, the guardsman at the door of their bedchambers knocked hurriedly.

“My Lord, my lady,” the guardsman called. “Maester Luwin is at the door. He says it’s urgent.”

Ned frowned, annoyed at the interruption.

“Let him in, Wylis.”

The elderly guardsman opened the door, and Maester Luwin, a small grey mouse of a man, shuffled hurriedly inside. From Luwin’s behaviour, she knew instantly they were bad news.

_Dark wings, dark words._

“My Lord, my lady,” he greeted, clearly unsettled from the scroll he carried in his hands. “A raven from King’s Landing.”

Without any further ado, he handed Ned the letter. Her husband read it quickly, his scowl dropping into a numb, flat expression.

Catelyn could only stare with apprehension. Before she could ask, however, Ned spoke.

“Balon Greyjoy has crowned himself King of the Iron Islands. He attacked the Lannisters and burnt their unsuspecting fleet during the night,” he stated flatly, lacking any outward reaction, but his grey eyes were dark and haunted with wrath. “Luwin, call the banners.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > The punishment that Cat threatens on Robb and Jon was actually enormously effective when my brother and I fought when we were kids. Growing up in a different country and constantly moving between houses, we never had "neighbourhood friends", so we played with each other because we had no one else.  
> When I first read ASOIAF, Catelyn reminded me strongly of my own mother (something aided by the fact that my name is Robb, which I'm starting to suspect was deliberate), so I actually went and asked her what she would do in the same situation Cat had on her hands. And that's what she did: either we made up and stopped fighting, or she confined us to our rooms and forbade us from hanging out until we asked for forgiveness, which was insanely boring for both of us. And nothing sparks more dread on a child than boredom. And a childish fight over a snowball isn't worth a whole lecture on duty, honour, and ethics (trust me, I tried).
> 
> > I really, really, REALLY wanted a small fluff bit between Cat and Jon, to showcase how they have not only a healthy mother-son relationship, but a very close one too. However, the segue into it was very unnatural, and try as I might, it just seemed forced and didn't mesh very well with the rest of the chapter, so in the end I had to scrap it and just leave it at that. Of course, there are more chapters to come, and I'll try to have such an scene further down the line.
> 
> > Benjen and Dacey's marriage is, in contrast to Ned and Cat's, somewhat disfunctional. Then again, we have to keep in mind that arranged marriages are a lottery. Most, if they don't end up hating each other's guts, usually get along and become fond of the other at best, but never quite end up falling in love. Ned and Cat got insanely lucky, something they recognise even in canon. That being said, Ben and Dacey are still very young. They have time to get over their respective hangups.
> 
> > Speaking of Dacey, she is described as "at ease in a lady's garb or in leather armor" [2]. At least how I interpret that is that she's comfortable being both manly and womanly. She's beautiful, and she's also strong. She's polite and courteous, and she's also rowdy and brave. She can kill you with words and with swords, both with the same ease. Dacey Mormont stands in the perfect balance between being a beautiful lady and being a badass warrior.  
> However, she's also (happily, as far as we know) unmarried and childless in canon. By marrying her and making her a mother, I've broken that balance. By doing so during her teen years, I've done it during a relatively unstable period of her life, greatly heightening the impact of whatever happens.  
> Given her current disfunctional marriage, she now feels that being a "true" lady (i.e, a wife and a mother) just isn't for her. She needs to be reassured that the balance is possible, that there are better answers than just _rejecting who you are_ because you're not doing well at something you once thought you were good at.  
> And that's what Cat decides to do.
> 
> > As the anger has subsided, Ned has realised that he kind of screwed Benjen's life, and he regrets it wholeheartedly. However, that he isn't mad at him doesn't change the fact that the wolfpack needs to grow still, and while he feels like absolute shit for confining Benjen to a life he doesn't want, he knows it's what they must do for their family.
> 
> > Originally, Benjen's son was going to be named Artos, after Artos Stark the Implacable. However, after watching Avengers: Endgame **[STOP READING IF YOU HAVEN'T WATCHED ENDGAME YET AND HAVE ANY REAL INTEREST IN ACTUALLY WATCHING IT]** , I felt a moral duty to make some sort of tribute to Our Lord and Saviour Tony Stark, Blessed Be His Most Holy Name. However, as I can't just go and call him "Tony" or "Anthony", because ASOIAF, I used "Anton", a real-life variant spelling of the name that is more commonly used in Germanic and Eastern Europe and that meshes well with the rest of the names in the setting.  
> That being said, his (already planned) plotline and personality remains unchanged.  
> He is not Iron Man.  
> ... Or is he? :v
> 
> [1] https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Arya_Stark#Quotes_about_Arya  
> [2] https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Dacey_Mormont#Appearance


	6. Pyke [Ned III]

Banners from lords high and low rose against the dark and grey skies, the clouds of winter looming over the siege of Pyke. To say the so-called Greyjoy Rebellion had been a failure would be an understatement, Ned thought at the sight.

Believing King Robert’s hold on the Iron Throne to be weak and feeble, Lord Balon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands had rose up in open rebellion to gain independence for his domains, crowning himself King of the Iron Islands, in an attempt to bring back the long-since-outlawed crimes of reaving, murdering, plundering and raping that the Ironborn arrogantly called “the Old Way”. He had struck a quick and decisive blow against the Lannister fleet, anchored at Lannisport, in an attempt to cut any mainland army from crossing into the islands, cutting short any attempt to counterattack his homeland.

Unfortunately for Balon, his mighty Iron Fleet had been squashed by Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone and the king’s stern younger brother, in a battle off the straits of Fair Isle. And so, the wooden wall upon which Balon’s defense depended had quite literally sunk into the sea.

The tide had been irrevocably turned. The armies of the Seven Kingdoms had swarmed over the Iron Islands, taking control of all the ill defended castles and towns and even some of the strongly defended, as well, and razing many of them to the ground.

Pyke was one of the latter; indeed, it was near impregnable by way of common siege tactics, its walls tall and sturdy. Scattered across three barren islands and many dozen smaller stacks of rocks, it was almost completely off from the mainland, only connected by a stone bridge to the stables, the kennels and the livestocks located there.

“Your Grace, as long as they keep control over the mainland, they will keep control over the food supplies stored there. They might have enough to last for years, even,” Lord Galbart Glover spoke, the leaders of the siege gathered in war council in the royal tent, the Northern and Stormlander Lords sitting at opposite sides of the round table while King Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, presided over the council.

“Thank you, Lord Obvious. Next time, try saying something we genuinely don’t know,” snapped Lord Bryce Caron, a brash, young and untested Stormlander lad that had come prematurely to his title due to the untimely death of his lord father barely a few moons ago. The Northern Lords scowled dangerously at the insult at one of their own as a red-faced Glover was about to retort when the king interrupted before it could escalate.

“Careful,” King Robert Baratheon warned. “You were still playing with wooden swords while we were fighting the Targaryens. Have you even killed a man with that fancy blade by your side, boy?” Caron shook his head, shamed. “No? Then shut up and let the grown-ups talk,” the King sternly scolded him. He turned to Lord Glover, who was staring daggers at the Stormlander. “What do you propose, Glover?”

“We should use our trebuchets to take out the islets upon which Pyke lies. It might take some time, aye, but it will be a lasting solution,” Lord Roose Bolton interjected, his whispering silky voice belying the brutality of the method suggested. Glover bristled at the recurring interruptions, but said nothing.

“There are innocent people inside the castle, my Lord,” Lord Gulian Swann said, appalled at Bolton’s proposal.

“It is but a small price to pay for the safety of our shores,” Bolton rebuked without blinking.

“Says the landlocked…” muttered Lord Jorah Mormont next to Ned, though, Stark noted, his cousin by law didn’t disagree with the idea. Indeed, just an instant later he voiced “aye, ‘innocent’ and ‘ironborn’ is an oxymoron” in support of it.

Ned stirred on his seat, uncomfortable by it all. _‘The Waves of Pyke’? Tywin Lannister would be so proud._ Lord Roose Bolton was a most terrible foe to have, ruthless and unfeeling as he was. However, in the six years of Ned’s rule in the North, Bolton had yet to prove seditious or treacherous at all; indeed, the man had been, so far, a loyal and steadfast bannerman. However, while Ned didn’t trust him at all (as any sane person would do when it came to the Boltons) he had a fairly good idea on how to deal with them, disgusting as it was.

He wasn’t looking forward to speaking with Roose about it, though. Not because Ned believed the Lord of the Dreadfort would find it disagreeable and reject it. On the contrary, it was the exact opposite what he feared.

“Or we could fire them at the bridges, instead? Isolate them in their islets and starve them out,” suggested Lord Willam Dustin, looking every bit as uncomfortable as Ned felt. His friend was a good and honourable man; of course he would dislike the idea of murdering innocent people.

“The bridges are out of the range of our trebuchets, though,” Lord Lester Morrigen pointed out.

“We could set them up in the ships and fire them from there.”

“Aye, I forgot that the waves and the winds were so gentle you can actually hit the damn buggers,” Lord Jon Umber barked a friendly laugh.

“Fair enough,” Dustin tsked.

Robert frowned, clearly dwelling on Bolton’s idea, but after a moment, he shook his head. “While I appreciate the irony of those wretched Ironborn being buried in a watery grave, that would take far more time than we have. We can’t afford a protracted siege, either. Our supply lines are exposed to those fucking pirates so we can’t rely too much on them, and what little we have with us is running dry as it is. When it comes down to attrition, they will outlast us. No, my lords, we must assault.”

The words hung heavily on the tent, as the Northern and Stormlander lords looked warily among themselves. Sieges were one thing. But an assault was always a risky strategy, prone to backfiring should they be repelled. It was the very definition of “all-or-nothing”.

“Are you sure it is a wise course of action, Your Grace?” Lord Caron asked imprudently. “Even a child knows that a man high in a wall is worth twenty trying to rush him. We could be slaughtered.”

“The only child here is you, Lord Caron. Do yourself a favour and shut your fucking mouth once and for all,” Robert wheeled on him, fire in his eyes.

“Yes Your Grace, I’m sorry Your Grace” he hurriedly corrected himself, looking down to the desk intently. Ned felt a pang of sympathy; Lord Caron was just an eager boy, trying hard to make a contribution to the council. Maybe far too hard for his own good.

“With all due respect, Your Grace, Lord Caron has a point regarding the risks of an assault, even if his manners leave much to be desired,” Lord Swann said with a pointed look at the flustered youth he had taken under his wing. “We would be hopelessly outmatched if we try to climb their walls, and building siege towers would take far too much time; time that you yourself, Your Grace, said we don’t have. Of course, we can take down their walls with our trebuchets, but the breach creates a bottleneck that the Ironborn can exploit.”

“Only if we create just one,” Robert shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “But if we make three breaches, well, now that changes the tide, huh? We distract them and make them believe we’re going to climb their walls so they go and stand on top of them to repel us, then bring the floor down from under them with our trebuchets and sappers. We _have_ sappers working on their walls, right?” he asked Ned.

“Lord Reed and my brother Benjen are hard at work as we speak, Your Grace.” Over five years had passed, and the words still just felt wrong in his mouth.

“Good,” Robert nodded in satisfaction. “We’ll bury the ironborn underneath their bloody walls, we go in hard and fast before they even realise what’s happening, we’ll murder whatever cunt is dumb enough to survive the collapse, and we’ll take the forecastle before they can send in the reinforcements from the other keeps. We take out their food supplies, we make them our own, and then we’ll be able to outlast them.”

“Only the forecastle, Your Grace?” Bryce Caron piped in yet again. Most of the lords groaned or fidgeted uncomfortably. Lord Mormont facepalmed. Lord Swann looked up to the tent’s ceiling, asking his gods for patience. Lord Umber muttered something to Lord Rickard Karstark, who snorted a laugh.

“You just don’t learn, do you, you dumb cunt...” Robert growled, livid with wrath at what seemed as Lord Caron continuous overstepping of his boundaries and questioning of his king.

“No, Your Grace, it’s just that… Pyke would be left open to us. If we push a little more, we can take the castle,” he continued pathetically, digging his own grave even deeper. Lord Bolton had a glimmer of something eerily reminiscent of amusement in his eye. It gave Ned the creeps.

“Aye, but we would be fighting in their home,” Ned answered in place of Robert, whose hands were twitching with the temptation of strangling the youth’s life out of him. _He should be thanking every God there is that Robert is no Aerys, regardless of how wroth he may get_. “They know and control all the corridors and hideouts. We do not. We would be at a crippling disadvantage, and they would be able to pick us off in a bottleneck at the gates of their bridges, if not outright bring them down while all our troops are trying to cross. It’s safer to take out their food supplies, to tighten the noose around their necks.”

“Thank you!” Robert exclaimed, slamming his fists against the table instead of Caron’s face, immensely satisfied that someone was thinking the same as him. _Being raised together may have something to do with that_ , Ned thought as they shared a knowing smile. “Any questions?” Robert asked after a moment. “Not you, Caron, shut the fuck up,” he quickly shot at the youth, just as he was opening his mouth.

“Who will lead the armies into the breach?” asked Lord Swann instead.

“I will lead the middle personally. Swann, I want you to take control of the stormlander host on the northern breach.”

“It will be my honour, Your Grace,” Swann dipped his head.

“Good. Try and get Caron killed, will ya?” Robert laughed. It was telling of the poor impression the lad had made that most of the northern lords either chuckled or voiced their approval. Ned did nothing of the sort, instead looking with pity at the young stormlander lord, who seemed to wish that the earth would swallow him to escape the ridicule his rash eagerness had brought upon himself. “That leaves the Northern host on the southern breach. Ned?”

“Aye,” Ned nodded. No further words were needed between them.

“Good. Then we’re set. We’ll attack at dawn, with the sun in our backs. We’ll divide our armies in three arrow heads, we’ll breach their walls with our trebuchets and mines, we pour in, kill everyone in the forecastle, take control of their supplies, and wait for them to surrender,” Robert recapped for them. “One last thing: no heroics, do you hear me? I won’t have any more good, brave men dying to put down scum like Greyjoy. He isn’t worth it. Is that clear?” Everyone in attendance nodded in agreement. “Then get to it. Not you, Ned,” Robert added as the Lords stood up from their chairs to leave. The northmen were the first to leave, always surly to spend time with southerners. As the stormlanders left the tent, Lord Swann slapped the back of Lord Caron’s head, scolding him for his suicidal brashness. Soon after, only Robert and Ned were standing in the tent.

An awkward silence hung over them.

It was a surreal feeling. There they were, lifelong best friends, together again after over five years with barely a sent letter to each other. Where did they stand now? What could they even say to each other, now that one was king?

“You’ve got fat,” Ned bluntly stated.

Robert raised an eyebrow.

“That, and a beard,” Ned pointed out. “Beards were always more of my thing. Are you trying to copy me?”

“If by ‘copy’ you mean ‘doing the same but better in every conceivable way’, then yes, I am copying you,” Robert grinned.

With a shared laugh, both men strided towards the other and embraced each other tightly.

“Five years. Heh. It’s been far too long, Ned,” Robert said as they separated, sitting down in adjacent chairs.

“It is. Pity we meet again in these circumstances, though,” Ned sighed.

“What are you talking about?” Robert asked. “This is great! We’re back on the road, leading armies, the two of us against tyranny! Just like the good old times!”

“Hold up. The ‘good old times’?” Stark frowned, confused. “Robert, we were at war, fighting for our survival. Thousand of people died.”

“Bah, there’s always someone dying somewhere. At least during a war they do it for a purpose.”

Ned was at a loss of words. He knew Robert to be a boisterous man, a born warrior, and one that loved few things as much as a good fight, but he had expected that, after the horrors of the Rebellion, he would have tempered himself. _I was wrong, it seems._

“But that’s enough about that,” the king changed the topic. “How’ve you been? Jon has only told me the bare minimum about the goings at Winterfell.”

“My wife’s soon to give birth for the third time,” Ned replied, a warm feeling in his insides at the thought.

Robert laughed. “Haven’t wasted any time, have you?”

“Well, the North is very cold, even during summer. We’ve got to do what we’ve got to do to warm ourselves up,” he shrugged. “And you? How are you doing down in King’s Landing?” Ned asked with a light smile on his face, but it quickly vanished when he noticed how somber Robert looked at the question. All his laughter in his blue eyes had died as soon as the capital was mentioned.

After a few seconds, Robert spoke. “I’ll be completely honest with you, Ned… It’s not great. Being a King. I thought I had it hard when I was just the Lord of Storm’s End. But King’s Landing…” He shook his head. “There are times I wish I could burn the whole damn city down to the ground, with all its deceit, treachery and conspiracy. Everywhere I look, all I see are false smiles and ill-concealed ambition, all of them waiting for the perfect moment to drive a dagger in my back. I don’t know who I can trust; probably no one, besides Jon.”

“You have your brothers, don’t you?”

Robert barked a dry laugh. “My brothers are a sour bastard and a frivolous child, both even more useless than I am at the game of thrones that is the capital. I never got along with Stannis, true, but this damned crown has poisoned things beyond reason. I made him Lord of Dragonstone, and he takes it as an insult!”

“To be fair with him, Dragonstone is a meagre rock in comparison to Storm’s End,” Ned tried.

“Of course it is. But Dragonstone is _The_ Targaryen’s ancestral keep, after all. Who else could I have given it to, if not someone I could trust completely? He managed to hold Storm’s End for over a whole year at siege. Only Stannis could maintain control over a populace that has been ruled by dragons since before the Doom. For God’s sake, by giving him that title I even recognised him as my rightful heir to the throne, and instead he gets all angry about it and becomes even more of a cunt than he was before!”

“Haven’t you thought to perhaps reinstate him to Storm’s End? You’ve got a son of your own now, he should be the Prince of Dragonstone.”

“Joffrey?” Robert frowned, genuinely befuddled at the suggestion. “He is barely three and a worse crybaby than Renly ever was—and his cries were one of the reasons I preferred the Eyrie to Storm’s End, I swear. If I gave Dragonstone to Joffrey, I’m sure my bitch of a wife would find a Lannister lackey to serve as regent, and trust me Ned, the last thing I need are more Lannisters in my life. Besides, I already gave Storm’s End to Renly; if I took it from him and gave it to Stannis, now I’d have _two_ brothers hating my guts!”

“But… surely Stannis would be pleased, right?” Ned could hardly wrap his head around it all. _Got to try harder, then._

“Please. There’s no pleasing Stannis, and I’ve long given up trying. He can fuck off in Dragonstone for all I care.” Robert sighed heavily. “You should have taken the damned throne. You’d know what to do.”

“If half of what you’re telling me is true, I would have gotten myself killed within the year,” Ned replied bluntly.

“At least then I would have an excuse to bash some skulls in with my warhammer…”

“Touching.”

Robert snorted a humourless laugh.

Heavy weighs the crown. Robert, once a giant among men, had been cut down to size. He no longer had that glimmer of life in his deep blue eyes. His hair, once carefully trimmed, was starting to resemble his son Jon’s, an unkempt mop of dark curls. Once, his laughs were hearty and cheerful, but now they were bitter and dry. It was unsettling to see his friend, his brother from another mother, like this.

“Robert…” Ned began, trying to find the words to comfort his friend. “I can’t even fathom how hard it must be to be the king, but you have a duty to do. If you can’t do it for yourself, then at least do it for the realm.”

“I would set the realm ablaze if it meant getting your sister back,” Robert sighed with deep grief. “Gods, I sound like a Targaryen. What would she think if she saw me now?” he rued, hunched down in utter defeat.

“Does it matter?” Ned countered, not unkindly.

“It does to me.”

“She would want you to do better. She would want you to be better.”

“But how?” his voice quivered. “How can I be better, if I don’t have her with me? If I won’t ever get her back? How am I supposed to keep moving forward, if I will never see her face again? Why would I, even?”

“I don’t know the answers, Robert. But I know you have what it takes to be a good king. To be a great man. And I know she did, too,” he lied. _I loved her dearly, but she was wrong on a great many things. That was one of them. The same way as Robert never truly got to know her, she never got to know him._

“I need you, Ned. I need you with me in the capital,” the king near pleaded. All of his bravado was gone, revealing the pathetical whimper for aid it hid beneath. “Help me rout the vipers and vultures before they’re the end of me. Please.”

“If I went down to King’s Landing, I would only make it easier for your enemies to kill us both,” Ned pointed out with reluctance. He wanted to help Robert, he truly did, but he’d be as useless as nipples on a breastplate down in King’s Landing. “You have Jon with you. I’ll help you both from Winterfell.”

“Right,” Robert replied unenthusiastically. “And when the situation reaches the breaking point, where will your swords be? Far away, in that frozen hellhole you call home.”

“Some battles are won with swords and spears. Others, with quills and ravens,” Ned said with a slight smile.

 

* * *

 

Maester Luwin had explained to them time and again that his father and uncle were fighting a war, just like they had done before their birth against the Targaryens, but Jon couldn’t understand why aunt Dacey had accompanied them. She had always been kind to him, a willing accomplice to his and Robb’s mischiefs, and now she was gone. They were left only with their mother to take care of all four Starklings.

And now, his mother was locked in her bedchambers, screaming in pain. And they were alone, sitting at the other side of the door. Jon recalled how, last time, his father had comforted Robb and him, whispering reassuring words that had long since left his memory. And although he tried his very best, ser Rodrik was a poor substitute for their father. Maester Luwin, their other caretaker, was absent, inside the bedchamber with his mother.

“Your father is off fighting the King’s war. Your mother is fighting her own battles now,” he had told them, his large grey whiskers shivering when he spoke.

“Well, she’s losing!” Robb had exclaimed, distressed.

“Who is she fighting against?” Anton had asked. “Is it the Targaryens again?”

“Isn’t there anyone nearby who can send reinforcements?”

That was when ser Rodrik realised that the minds of children, all of them younger than six years of age, were far too literal for his martial metaphors to have any effect. With a heavy sigh, he stopped trying to comfort the boys, instead holding Sansa in his arms and rocking her; as a father of only girls, he knew exactly what to do when it came to her.

The three Stark boys, instead, were left to their own. Robb was standing by the door, staring intently against it with all his might, willing everything to be alright and, if Jon knew his twin at all, trying to figure out exactly what type of battle his mother was fighting. Anton was sitting on the ground, trying and failing to concentrate on the letters maester Luwin was trying to teach him.

Meanwhile, Jon was looking out of the window, trying to block out his mother’s screams out of his mind. People went on and about with their lives across the courtyard, the sun still high in the sky. Columns of smoke arose from the many chimneys across the castle. A murder of crows flew above the weirwood in the Godswood.

He hid it well, but he felt he was close to break down crying in any instant.

He would never admit it, but Jon was very much a momma’s boy. As Robb was the heir to Winterfell, he monopolised their father’s time a bit too much as he always went to him for whatever he needed; and while Jon was a bit jealous at times, he never minded much, because he always had his mother to turn back to when he needed something. When he had a nightmare, she would always welcome him with open arms and comfort him. When he scraped his leg playing, she would patch him up herself.

But now, she was screaming in pain, and there was nothing he could do about it, but wait. Eventually, the screaming subsided, and silence reigned.

“What happened? Did she win?” Robb asked urgently after a moment.

Fortunately for ser Rodrik, at that moment the doors opened and maester Luwin came out, his long grey sleeves stained with blood, but a weary and warm smile on his face.

“Yes, Robb. She won. Come,” he gestured to all of them, “your mother wants you to meet your new sister.” When he saw Anton didn’t stand up, a downcast look in his eye, Luwin added, “you too, Anton. Don’t you want to meet your new cousin?”

“Can I? She’s not my mother,” Anton muttered.

“But she’s family nonetheless, and she would be glad to see you as well,” Luwin explained kindly.

His mother’s bedchamber reeked of a foul smell Jon had never felt before and, quite frankly, would rather never smell again. If Robb’s grimace was any indication, he wasn’t the only one disgusted.

However, their attention was fixated on the bed. Their mother looked more haggard and tired than they had ever seen her, but she beamed happiness. In her arms, she held a small bundle.

She said nothing, only smiling as her children and nephew crawled up the bed to look at the newest member of their pack. The new babe was a minuscule thing, wrinkled and purple, with a small tuft of dark brown hair on top of her head.

“She’s so ugly!” Sansa squealed, babbling her words. “I love her!”

“A girl? I wanted a brother,” Robb frowned, slightly disappointed.

“Next time, I promise,” Cat caressed her eldest son’s hair with her free hand.

“Does she have a name?” Jon asked. Unlike his twin, he was not in the very least disappointed with his new sister; instead, he was thrilled beyond words.

Cat turned to him, a thoughtful look on her face. “What do _you_ think she should be called?” his mother asked him.

Jon already knew his answer.

“Arya. After our great-grandmother.”

Cat raised her eyebrows. “Oh? And why so?”

“Uncle Benjen has been telling us about her,” Jon noticed how Anton, silent so far, perked up at his father’s mention. “He told us she was fearsome but kind, and that she hunted bears on the Wolfswood. A true she-wolf, he said. I would like my sister to be like that,” he answered honestly.

Cat looked at him for a moment, before smiling a soft, motherly smile.

“Arya it is, then. Arya Stark of Winterfell. Do you want to hold her, Jon?” He looked at his mother wide-eyed, before nodding gingerly. Carefully, Catelyn handed him the small bundle that was his little sister.

When the babe opened her little eyes and Jon saw his own grey eyes staring back at him, he swore right then and there that he would always protect her, no matter how far away he might be, whatever it took.

 

* * *

 

Ned slumped heavily against the nearest cobblestone, his sword red with blood and out of breath.

Their battleplan had gone without a hitch. A small stormlander host under Lord Morrigen’s command had maneuvered in front of the walls with their siege stairs, attempting to climb over the walls. The ironborn, led by a Greyjoy lordling, had manned the walls with as many troops they could, in order to drive back any offensive. The ironborn had been successful on that regard, but at the same time Lord Reed had lighted up the mines underneath the walls, collapsing them and weakening the foundations on which the castle was built upon. At the first hit with the trebuchets, the southern tower collapsed, bringing down hundreds of defenders with it. Thoros of Myr, an eastern red priest that had made of King’s Landing his home, had been the first to charge over the breach, his sword set alight with wildfire. An inspirational sight, the forces of the Iron Throne followed soon after, flooding the courtyard of Pyke’s forecastle quickly and decisively.

The fighting to take control of it, however, had been very fierce, for the ironborn were not ones to lie down without a fight. Ned’s whole body ached with exertion, and more than once he had come close to feeling the bite of his enemies’ steel.

Yet, he could sit easy, for the battle for the forecastle was over, what little soldiers remained retreating into the keeps. The weary combatants moved aimlessly across the courtyard, grieving their fallen friends and reuniting with those that had survived.

“Ned!” he heard Benjen call out his name, walking in long, quick strides towards him.

“Ben,” Ned wearily greeted. “Are you wounded?” he quickly asked with concern when he noticed the sheer amount of blood spattered across Benjen’s brigandine.

His brother shook his head. “It’s not mine.”

“Dacey?”

“She handled herself even better than me! She’s grea—I mean, she’s doing alright,” he answered with a hint of dazed amazement in his voice. Ned had to suppress a laugh. _Really?_ This _is what you needed to fall in love with her?_ His train of thought, however, died as soon as Benjen continued talking. “Jorah isn’t, however. He took an arrow to a knee. The maester fears the wound might cripple him for life.”

“Go get maester Brus,” Ned ordered his brother immediately, referring to the Stark’s field maester, a spindly man no older than himself. While no one could characterise Ned’s relationship with the taciturn Lord of Bear Island as close, Jorah Mormont was a loyal and faithful bannerman, and his kin by marriage. “Tell Brus to treat him as if it were me.”

Benjen nodded, and darted off into the crowd. With a grunt, Ned stood up and looked around for the King. There was work to be done.

"Maron Greyjoy is dead," Robert stated when the leaders of the army reunited in another part of the courtyard.

Ned frowned. "Who?" The Greyjoys were a large family, with heaps upon heaps of siblings and cousins. He had no idea which Greyjoy 'Maron' was supposed to be. He might as well have been the last scion of the house for all he knew.

"Balon's heir. He was leading the ironborn up in the walls," Lord Swann informed him. Ned nodded, thankful, then frowned. _Second heir he buries in barely a few moons. His rebellion has costed him dearly._

"At least they won't need to bury him, hah!" The Greatjon laughed. "We already did it for them!"

"Your jokes are not appreciated, northman. He deserves to be treated with some honour, regardless of how he behaved in life," Caron rebuked sternly at the Lord of the Last Hearth.

The Greatjon blinked, then laughed uproariously, amused by the arrogance of a lad half his size and age to try and scold him.

"You couldn't get him killed, then?" Lord Karstark dryly asked the King. Deep inside, Ned agreed tentatively with his distant kinsman. True enough, Bryce Caron certainly knew his way around battle, and had not disappointed at all. However, he was shaping up to be everything the northerners despised about the southrons: arrogant, frivolous, self-righteous, and with an inflated sense of importance.

"Not for a lack of trying," he grumbled, before turning to Caron. “You, boy, get hold of a white flag. You’ll be our envoy. You are to notify Greyjoy of his son’s demise, and offer him our terms. Namely, that he is to put down his arms, and bend the knee to House Baratheon of the Iron Throne. He is to give his new heir, Theon, as a ward to Lord Stark to be fostered in Winterfell.” – _Wait, what?_ Ned turned towards his friend, confused, but Robert paid him no mind, as he continued dictating terms to Bryce Caron, whose eyes were glimmering with the validation he so desperately craved – “He is to pay war reparations to House Lannister and Mallister, numbered in twenty thousand gold dragons, and five thousand gold dragons respectively. If he refuses, I will storm his castle, and pass through the sword every single man, woman and children I can get my hands on. I will break its foundations, and raze Pyke to the ground. And finally, I will salt the ground so that nothing may ever grow again on this land. If he refuses, House Greyjoy will be destroyed without mercy, to serve as an example to the world that ours is the fury. Those are my terms.”

“Your Grace… You… You honour me, Your Grace,” Caron stammered with reverence.

“Yes, yes, yes, now get to it.” The boy lord of Nightsong immediately shot out to his mission.

As he watched him leave, Ned stated: “They will never accept to those terms. Greyjoy is going to murder him the moment he opens his mouth.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Robert replied, eliciting a laugh among the northern lords. Lord Swann shook his head in distaste, but said nothing. “If this is what it takes to get rid of that boy, then so be it.”

A brief moment of silence followed, as they watched Caron managing to not get himself killed when he approached the gate and announced their terms.

“Would you go through with your threat?” Ned asked quietly, an endless pit on his stomach, dreading the answer. _If he says yes, then we are done here. I will not abide the murder of innocent children._ Two small corpses wrapped in scarlet banners. _Never again._

“Who do you take me for, Tywin fucking Lannister?” Robert sounded genuinely hurt at his lifelong friend’s doubt. Then again, after what happened to the Targaryen babes, Ned could be excused for his concern. “Of course not. But Balon needs to believe I would, so he may see sense and surrender once and for all.”

“And what if he calls your bluff?” Robert had no answer to that.

Fortunately, they never got to face that dilemma, for Balon Greyjoy, it seemed, had been broken by his second son’s death on the walls, and agreed to the terms. He would swear allegiance to Robert, right there, on the courtyard.

Balon Greyjoy was a different sort of man to what one would imagine the lord of the ironborn to be. He was not huge, heavily muscled, and with a tangle of hairs in place of a beard and a hairstyle, teeth rotten and missing, and with many a war scar in his face. And yet, while he was a very thin man, he was just as hardened and rough as an iron sword. He had a certain regal aura to him, the countenance of a man that knew himself to be right in his faith and his beliefs, no matter if he actually was.

Despite everything, he cut an authoritative figure that still managed to inspire a certain amount of respect on who watched him when, at the sight of the allied lords, spoke with deep hatred:

“You may take my head, but you cannot name me a traitor. No Greyjoy ever swore an oath of fealty to a Baratheon.”

“Swear one now or lose that stubborn head of yours,” Robert growled.

A tense silence followed, as both Greyjoy and Baratheon stared each other into submission. No words were exchanged. Only glares that promised silent threats, neither of them flinching. Seconds stretched into minutes, and minutes into hours. Some men fidgeted the pommels of their swords, as if waiting a resumption to hostilities.

Eventually, the ironborn gave in. Balon Greyjoy slowly, almost as if physically pained by the act itself, dropped to the floor and bent the knee. And then he spoke: “I vow allegiance to your house, Your Grace. I vow allegiance to you and to your heirs until the end of time. My keep is yours. My servants are yours. My domains and my armies are at your service. My glories and my shames, my victories and my defeats, my life and that of my family, they all belong to you. I am your man. I swear it by the old gods and the new,” Balon proclaimed, clear and concise, hatred emanating from him like heat from a bonfire.

“And I vow to you that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonour. I swear it by the old gods and the new,” Robert replied coldly. “Rise, Lord Balon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, Son of the Sea Wind and Lord Reaper of Pyke.”

Ned knew right then than neither of both men would uphold their oath. Robert would never be a friend to Pyke. Balon would never bow to the Baratheons any longer than he needed to, his fanatical self-righteousness spurring him onwards to a new rebellion further down the line. Ned felt the urge to sigh, Greyjoy’s arrogance leaving a sour taste to the mouth. _What folly does pride leads us to._ It did not escape Ned’s attention the fact that Balon hadn’t sworn on the Drowned God’s name. For a zealot like Greyjoy, that made his vow void and null. _There will be another war against Pyke. And we will be ready for it._

“Would that be all… Your Grace?” Balon said with poorly concealed hostility. _Get the fuck out of my land,_ Ned read clearly between the lines.

Robert smiled an ugly smirk, clearly revelling on imposing on Greyjoy’s reluctant submission. “Unfortunately, no. Your son, Theon. He is to be Lord Stark’s ward, remember?”

“His hostage, you mean,” Balon spat, shivering with rage. “To ensure my good behaviour. You’ve killed two of my sons, and now you take away the last one I had left.”

“Only because you desired a crown of your own. Their blood is in your hands, Greyjoy,” Robert snapped at him, “and so will Theon’s, if you’re stupid enough to try again.”

Balon retreated back into his keeps soon after, a servant sent to fetch the boy. He didn't look back.

The instant the heavy iron gates closed behind him, Ned turned towards Robert and stated:

“I won’t execute him, Robert.”

“Excuse me?” Robert wheeled on him, a confused frown on his face.

“I know you heard me perfectly well the first time. If Balon Greyjoy rises in arms again, I won’t execute Theon. I will not be party to the murder of innocent children. He will be a ward, not a hostage.”

“Listen here, Ned,” Robert said, his voice rising with every other word. “I understand your reluctance to kill him, but if the dumb fuck he has for a father rebels again, you _will_ execute that fucking boy, and you’ll do it BECAUSE YOUR KING COMMANDS YOU TO!”

Ned wasn’t moved. “Aye, you command me to. But because it’s a stupid commandment, I have decided to ignore it.”

“Oh, it’s _stupid_ , you say? What would _you_ know about politics, Stark? ” Robert scowled, furious at his friend’s defiance. “What, do you have a better idea?”

“Aye, I do.”

Robert was skeptical. “Enlighten me, then, before I decide to send the Greyjoy boy to Casterly Rock.”

“Tell me, who would rule Pyke after you crush the Greyjoys for the second time? After you’ve taken Balon’s head and murdered his only remaining son?”

“Probably a Lannister just to spite you,” Robert said without any hint of humour in his voice. “Why?”

“Think back on the Iron Islands’ history. How did the Hoares fare when they tried to promote tolerance, peace and commerce? Don’t you remember the Shrike?” He knew Robert had barely the faintest of what he was talking about. He never paid much attention to Jon Arryn’s tutelage. “No greenlander can rule them. Only an ironborn can rule the ironborn.”

“Are you telling me to keep Balon Greyjoy alive?” the king was incredulous. “Even after he rose up in arms for a second fucking time?”

“Of course not. You can crush his head in with your warhammer for all I care. What I’m telling you is that you have to have a Greyjoy claimant of your own to put in charge of Pyke should it come to it. A trueborn heir to Pyke, that was raised in the mainland. Someone who can be both an ironborn leader _and_ loyal to the King’s peace. A puppet, to say in simple terms.”

“And who do you have in—oh.”

“Aye.”

"He'll truly be your ward, then? Not your hostage?" Ned nodded, leaving no room for arguments. “You have your work cut out for you, huh,” Robert grunted.

“He’s younger than we were when we left for the Eyrie for the first time. I’ll make a Stark out of him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Wall of Assorted Trivia:
> 
> > "Robert's forces assaulted the southern wall with siege engines, finally shattering the main watchtower there and bringing parts of the surrounding wall down. (...) The fighting in the castle was very fierce, but eventually the castle was taken." [1]  
> There's no real battle plan there, and while we can expect something like that from the show, we're talking about Bobby B and Eddie S here, they're better than that. They must realise the logistical problems of trying to assault PYKE, a castle that is literally spread across several islets and connected only by bridges.  
> Sure, we can say that the breach and assault was just the end result, but we're still missing the battle plan that made them happen. So here we go, now we have one.
> 
> > Lord Bryce Caron, according to AWOIAF, is "a respected warrior. He became the head of the House after his father, mother, brother, and all his sisters succumbed to a terrible chill in 289 AC" [2]. And sure, by the year 298, he is a respected warrior. But by 289, he is only a young eager boy trying too hard to be taken seriously.
> 
> > Robert is, in my opinion, a fairly complex character, that unfortunately tends to be demonised by the drunk, hedonistic and abusive failure he eventually became. While I understand why people can rightfully despise him, I see him more as a tragic fallen hero, who won the war and lost everything that mattered to him, sinking into the pits of self-destructive depression and apathy. He may have never known Lyanna as she truly was, but his love for her was, while misguided, honest and true. His drinking and whoring are (horribly unhealthy) coping mechanisms, and I think no one can blame him for despising Cersei and Joffrey and everyone in that shithole that is King's Landing. Of course, that doesn't excuse him being abusive to both, but as I've said, Robert is not a hero. He's not meant to be morally right. He's a broken man.  
> I feel great pity for Robert, not least of all because Robert (when he was young) is near-identical to how my closest friend was when I met him when we began Uni years ago. But, despite the struggle it was, he managed to change his ways to win the heart of the woman he loved; amusingly enough, my younger-sister-like cousin who despised his womanising and hedonism.  
> It's him who I have in mind when I write Robert. Or, more exactly, an hypothetical destroyed version of him that I dearly wish I never have to witness.
> 
> > Yup. You read right. Ned just uttered a Tywin quote. No need to panic, though; he is still a far better, more moral man than Tywin could ever hope to be; it's just meant to showcase that he is abandoning his head-in-the-sand management of peacetime politics, and seeing the value of diplomacy and subterfuge over letting things boil over to open conflict and then defeat his foes on the battlefield. Will that be enough to keep him alive when the lion and the wolf inevitably clash against each other, though?
> 
> > I added Arya's birth mainly because I was left butthurt because I couldn't explore satisfactorily Jon and Cat's relationship in the previous chapter, and also because when I moved the Benjen/Dacey scene there to the next chapter, the pacing felt off by jumping from the war council straight to the aftermath of the battle. Also, it's literally the first time Jon and Arya are together (for obvious reasons), which is still something very important, because, regardless of how you interpret their relationship (platonic or romantic), you can't deny it is a **major** guiding force in their characters and plotlines.  
> Unless you're D&D. But you're not, so what gives?  
> That, and I've read some fanfictions that make Jon meeting baby Arya as later, sneaking into the nursery, because Cat would not allow him near when she gave birth. Yet here, he gets to name the baby. That's a big difference in their relationship that I wanted to underline.  
> (Writing children is _hard_. I need me some time-skip.)
> 
> > Yes, Jorah just got Skyrim'ed. Press an F in the comments down below for our bear boi.
> 
> > I realised that we've never seen a true oath of fealty anywhere on ASOIAF. We know the oaths of a knight, as well as the standard answer to an oath of fealty. But what is sworn by the now-vassal to his liege lord has never appeared on canon. So I had to improvise; I used the oath of fealty I previously made for a historical fiction setting of my own, although I'm not overly satisfied with how the translation from Spanish played out.
> 
> > Another momentous decision for Ned regarding the raising of his household. I think it's pretty obvious why: it's far more convenient to have Theon as a puppet on Pyke rather than as a head on a pike.
> 
> [1]: https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Siege_of_Pyke  
> [2]: https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Bryce_Caron


	7. A Change of Course

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hard chapter to write. A lot of very important things go down in this chapter, with lasting and far-reaching consequences, and I wanted the quality of the writing to be up to it.  
> Of course, that just meant it took longer than usual and the quality is average as always.
> 
> GP Mass commented on the previous chapter: _"I like the Jorah from the series but not the one from the books, I'm actually rooting for him to screw up so one of Dacey's children can inherit Bear Island"_ , and I thought I might as well answer here for everyone's convenience.  
> Just like many fics purposely mix book and show canons for their story, I'm mixing up certain characterisations from books and show. Jorah and Renly are two characters that come to mind that will have their show characterisation, while most will stay closer to their book one.

Deep into the tunnels they had dug underneath the walls of Pyke, Benjen Stark had found what he had been missing all these years:

A sense of purpose.

But the war was over and done, the Greyjoys subjugated once more. And now, as they revelled in the festivities that came after, Benjen once again felt himself adrift, sunken and left to rot, just like the wrecks of the Lannister fleet that still rose over the waves, a somber espectacle that he observed, leaning against a railing in the docks of Lannisport.

Lannisport, located at the feet of the enormous Casterly Rock, was unlike any city Benjen had ever seen before (then again, he had only ever been to White Harbour). Tall and refined white stone buildings lined the twisting and turning streets, their roofs covered with bright crimson tiles and elaborate and intricate heraldic designs carves of the facade. Lofty palaces and their rich merchants owners were commonplace, and he had yet to see a beggar. Banners of scarlet hung across the city, a lion rampant embroidered proudly in gold thread. Lannisport was, most likely, the richest city on all of Westeros, bar none.

 _Of course, when you are the capital of the gold trade in the whole continent it’s pretty easy to be rich,_ Benjen mused as he watched a merchant navy flying the Pentoshi banners maneuvered it’s way across the wrecks on the harbour. As far as he knew, King’s Landing, despite being the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, was a cesspool of poverty and crime, while Oldtown was pretty much just that: old. Not rich nor poor, just an old city long past its prime.

Nothing like Lannisport, which was positively bustling with trade, and that was on a normal day. But this was no normal day: by order of the King, the city was to hold a tourney in celebration of the victory of the crown against the ironborn rebels, and knights all across the realm were flooding the city, looking to take part in it. And Benjen knew that, not far behind them, so did prostitutes and thieves, looking to gain somo gold out of it all.

_The banners rising high into the sky, a gathering unlike any other. The grey direwolf in white. The gold lion in crimson. The black stag in gold. The silver eagle in blue. The golden rose in green. The red sun in orange. And above all, the red three headed dragons in black, waving tall and proud against the twisted, black stone towers melted by the dragonfire that had brought it to power._

_“Close your mouth, stupid. Otherwise you’re going to eat a fly,” Lyanna told Benjen, a little boy marvelled beyond reason by the magnificence of Harrenhal._

_“Or a flying cock,” Brandon snorted._

_Benjen blinked. “That’s not a real thing,” he said. A few seconds later, “they’re not real,” he insisted, his voice wavering with uncertainness. They couldn’t be real… right? He shivered at the thought._

_"Oh, they are very much real,” Brandon confirmed his fears with a smirk, Lyanna snickering to the side as she tried to discern their other brother among the arriving crowds, “but they’re endangered because they fly into the mouth of every fool that keeps it open for no reason. You don’t want to eat and kill one, do you?”_

_His eyes wide, Benjen was about to protest his innocence, horrified to discover he was contributing to a species’ extinction, when Lyanna lost her composure and bent over laughing, while Brandon’s sardonic smile gave way to a warmer, more heartfelt and honest one. “Close your mouth, Ben,” he said, patting him on the shoulder, “you look silly.”_

Benjen shook his head, the ghosts of his past hounding his every thought. Even here, in Lannisport, he was unable to rid himself of the guilt he had carried for years.

His life seemed to be some sick joke the gods had decided to play. His life seemed to be some sick joke the gods had decided to play. He had caused his family’s death, and now he had to repay them with new lives. He had left home to find a new purpose, and he had found one in the war… But now in peace, once again, he was adrift and with no goal. He had traveled to Pyke and to Lannisport, yet the shadows of Harrenhal still haunted him.

“Benjen. We need to talk.”

And the wife he wanted to leave behind was directly behind him.

He didn’t bother to look at her. “What is it?”

He heard her sigh. “At least you could look at me when I speak to you.”

But she was wrong—he couldn’t.

It was physically painful for him, looking at the woman he had married. Not because she was ugly; far from it, Dacey Mormont was probably the most beautiful woman Benjen had ever laid his eyes on. But what she meant for him was unbearable.

She was marriage. She was parenthood. She was stability, peace and quiet. She was home.

She was all he had never wanted, yet all he had now.

“The Wall is the other way, you know,” Dacey snapped at him. That got him out of his reverie.

“Excuse me?” he asked in confusion, turning towards his wife, the waves of Lannisport now behind him.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she accused him. There was no levity to her tone that allowed a snarky retort to be made. She was pissed.

_And she has every right to be._

“I…” Benjen tried to protest, but gave up immediately. He wasn’t fooling anybody, not even himself. “I have,” he reluctantly admitted instead.

She didn’t look surprised at his words. Only annoyed and bitter. “Why?”

“You know why.”

“Enlighten me.”

“The same reason I spend my days back at Winterfell hunting or praying.”

His wife rolled her eyes. “I thought we were done with all that shit after Pyke.”

Her back against his, the war cries of the ironborn and the song of steel as they fought to take over Pyke’s forecastle. A single mistake on his part would have meant her death, and so he had fought, unyielding, to prevent her from being wounded. The same held true in reverse. A connection had been forged between them, unlike anything they had ever experienced before.

"We did."

“Then? What happened?”

“It makes no difference,” he said gloomily.

Dacey furrowed her brow, biting her trembling lip. “I don’t understand.”

“It makes no difference,” he repeated, a bit louder. “The smiles, the warmth, even the sex… They don’t make a difference. And why should it? It won’t last. None of this is going to last.”

“Because you’re too stubborn to understand that your life can be something else than freezing your ass off at the Wall!” she threw at his face the time he’d expressed to her his boyhood dreams. “I wanted to be a warrior when I was little, and sail to different lands and have adventures, but now I’m married. Life never turns out the way you expect it to do, Benjen. Just how stupid do you have to be to not understand that?” she spat.

“The Wall…”

“Fuck the Wall!” Dacey shouted, at her wits’ end. “We have a _child_ , for gods’ sake! Does Anton mean nothing to you?”

“He means  _everything_ to me!” Benjen barked back, and he meant it. “He’s my son. I love him.” He paused for a few seconds, breathing heavily, then sighed deeply. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t deserve him. Just as I don’t deserve you. Just as I don’t deserve any of this, really. You’re all too good for someone like me.”

Dacey rolled her eyes. “What in the Seven Hells are you talking about?”

 _Lyanna. Brandon. Father. Their blood is in my hands, yet no one must know. No one_ can _know. I won’t endanger Jon._ “I can’t tell you.”

His wife took a deep, angry breath. “Then try telling me something that actually makes some fucking sense for once,” she snapped.

“And would you be satisfied with what I said?”

“I want you to be honest, Benjen!”

“Alright,” he sighed after a small pause. “I’ll be honest, then. I’m leaving for the Wall as soon as our third child is born,” he stated bluntly, with no remorse. “I decided as much before our betrothal was even announced, before Ned even proposed the betrothal to Jorah. Nothing you can say will change my mind.”

Dacey blinked, taken aback, unable to process his words. “W-what...?”

“What you heard. That’s why none of this matters, Dacey. Because I’ll be gone before the decade. Because I won’t be there to be a father for our children. I will be gone long before Anton ever truly needs a father to care for him. What’s the point of caring, it it all will be utterly irrelevant? What’s the point of even trying to have a happy marriage, if I’ll be gone soon, without ever growing old with you? Why should I invest myself in something that won’t last? Why should _you_ get invested in something that won’t last?”

Dacey had no answer for him. She only stared at him, her eyes wide and blank.

The silence extended for an indeterminate amount of time. Seconds? Hours? Who could say, really? Benjen and Dacey’s heavy breathing, the sound of the waves, the noises of the busy city… Dacey opening her mouth only to close it soon afterwards, repeatedly.

“Was there ever any chance?” she finally muttered, softer and more vulnerable than he had ever heard her, than he had ever imagined she could be. “For us?”

_‘No’._

_Say ‘no’._

_Break her heart and be done with it._

_It’ll hurt less when you leave._

_Just say ‘no’, gods dammit!_

But he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

For, after all, he _did_ love the woman in front of him. He revelled in her voice when she laughed, admired her unyielding attitude in the face of adversity, and longed for her warmth in their shared bed during the long, cold nights.

But it was all part of a life that just wasn’t meant for him.

None of it was meant for him.

Perhaps in another life…

“I guess we’ll never know,” he said instead, his voice strained, turning back towards the waves crashing against the harbour. Their conversation was over.

He was only barely aware of Dacey’s footsteps as she left, sobbing, biting back tears.

 

* * *

 

As the herald proclaimed ser Balman Byrch as the winner of the closely-fought bout that saw him face against ser Garth Greysteel, Lord Hightower’s second son, Ned couldn’t help but his gaze on him. Everyone around him cheered as the joust took place, two great knights among the bookkeeper’s favourites, meeting each other in the starting phases of the tourney, yet Ned Stark remained fixated on the herald that called the match.

If Robert had been commenting on the tourney with him as they did all those years ago in Harrenhal, he’d never hear the end of it. _Lord Stark fell in love with the herald!_ , he imagined his friend’s voice booming with laughter in his head. The herald himself was a short and stout fellow, hardly the kind of man to make the happily-married Lord Stark swoon like a blushing maiden.

No, the herald was irrelevant, for he wasn’t Ned’s target of attention. His attention, instead, had been squarely set on the intricate embroidery of gold thread that his bright scarlet satin velvet exhibited; the opulence that the Lannisters could afford to give such a minor piece in the elaborate showcase of power that they had set up. Certainly, they had spared no expense for the tourney.

It made Ned wonder exactly _when_ they had begun the preparations for it.

The only explanation he could come up with, without it being a due cause of concern, was the thought that, perhaps, the tournament was already being organised, and the Greyjoy rebellion had simply disrupted its holding; it wouldn't have been hard for them to repurpose the tourney once the war was over, after all. The idea that the Lannisters had spent their money preparing a tourney instead of actually fighting the ironborn was upsetting, to say the least.

Not that he’d be surprised. According to the rumours his soldiers had relayed to him, the Lannisters had taken advantage of the absence of the king to increase their hold on power, and Jon Arryn had been unable to stop them. Much of the finances destined to support the war effort had mysteriously vanished once in hand of the many convoys that displayed the golden lion. Coffers that had, Ned suspected, paid for the tourney.

“Wine!” Robert, sitting to Ned’s left, shouted at his squire, a lanky youth with golden hair. His nose was starting to turn red, and his crown was tilted on his head.

Ned's brow furrowed slightly. “You shouldn’t drink that much,” he advised, though he knew it to be futile.

Robert only looked at him, unamused, his gaze slightly unfocused. “Try being married to a Lannister, and we'll see if you manage to be sober for more than five minutes without wanting to kill yourself,” he muttered, shooting a nasty look at his wife, Queen Cersei, who sat on his left, her nose curled as if she was smelling something foul right in front of her. “WINE!” the king shouted again.

The more time Ned spent on the royal balcony as a guest of honour, the more obvious it became to him that Robert’s ‘enemies’ were his queen’s family. Were it any other house, Ned would have dismissed it as mere marital strife without much consequence. However, given that Robert’s wife was the daughter of no other than Tywin Lannister, it was just cause for concern.

Certainly, the Lannisters had never been a much beloved family, but at least they usually kept their haughtiness and arrogance to their lands. Under Lord Tywin, however, the worst excesses and tyrannies of the Lord of Casterly Rock were extending deep into the rest of the realm like an insidious cancer, threatening to strangle the peace they had fought so hard to establish, all for the sake of their petty politics and ambitions.

Many had already fallen prey to the lion. Derelict castles, a permanent reminder of the fate that awaited those who defied Casterly Rock. Hundreds drowned underground. Thousands murdered and raped as the city burnt, their desecrated bodies left to rot.

Two small corpses wrapped in scarlet banners.

No matter how much time had passed, Ned could never shake the image of the Targaryen babes from his head, and, he presumed, he would never be able to. The pure, unrelenting evil of Tywin Lannister going unpunished, instead being allowed to thrive and prosper with the backing of the crown, would always haunt his thoughts.

 _The only thing evil needs to succeed is for good men to stand idle,_ his father’s words resounded in his mind.

And he was done being idle.

 _I’ll be damned if I let history repeat itself just because no one is willing to stand up against tyranny. The Lannisters have to be stopped and brought to justice,_ Ned decided. _For the good of the realm._

But there wasn't much the North would be able to do.

At least, not alone.

“Jory, go to Lord Tyrell’s pavilion,” he ordered his faithful retainer as they walked back to his tent after the King had proclaimed a brief break of an hour. “Tell him I wish to speak with him.”

“Tyrell?” Jory frowned.

“Aye.”

His retainer seemed confused. “May I ask _why?_ The Tyrells are known to be opportunists.”

“And I intend to propose them a good deal. One, I believe, that is mutually beneficial. Now get going, and you can buy an ale or two in the tavern when you’re done,” he flipped a silver stag to Jory.

His captain of the guard caught the coin on the air, and smirked. “Consider it done, m’lord.”

Left without anything else to do but wait for the Lord of the Reach’s answer, Ned turned back and entered the tent he shared with his new ward.

Theon Greyjoy had been something of a surprise. Instead of a brawny and quarrelsome bully, he was thin, sullen and nervous. Ned could easily suppose the boy’s sadness was due to his brothers’ deaths and to having been taken away from his home so abruptly. Yet, there seemed to be something to his melancholy that suggested otherwise. He did not cry as Pyke faded in the distance.

When Ned had left Winterfell for the Eyrie, he had bawled his eyes out, and he still had his whole family waiting for him back home. He had left in good terms, into a welcoming new home. Theon, on the other hand, had lost his family, his home, and was now a hostage, yet he didn’t shed a single tear.

Currently, the boy was sitting idly on one corner of Ned’s pavilion, doodling idly on a spare piece of parchment, holding his head in his free hand with boredom.

“What are you doing, Theon?” Ned called out.

To his surprise, the boy jumped on his seat, eyes wide, as if he had seen a ghost, frantically trying to put his whole drawing setup where it belonged.

“I wasn’t doing anything, my lord! It was a spare parchment, no one was using it!”

Ned stared at him, puzzled by the boy’s reaction. “Hey, easy there. You did no wrong.”

Ned made to put his hand on Theon’s should in reassurance, but stopped himself when the boy flinched at the gesture. A surge of anger inflamed him.

“I’m… I’m sorry, my lord,” the boy mumbled, looking down to his feet.

“No. It’s your father the one who ought to be sorry,” Ned sentenced, deep hatred for Balon Greyjoy coursing through his veins. He took a deep breath to calm himself before continuing. “I won’t hurt you, Theon.”

“But… I'm your hostage. Aren’t you going to behead me? If my father goes to war again?”

“No,” Ned answered vehemently. “I won’t let any harm befall you.”

“Really?” His eyes were wide and filled with so much hope that Ned’s opinion of Balon Greyjoy and the ironborn in general soured even more than he’d ever thought possible. _Do they get a sick pleasure out of mistreating a poor boy?_ His right hand clenched into a fist. _And here I thought only we could benefit from this deal._

“Aye. I promise. You will be safe in Winterfell.”

Theon lowered his eyes for a few seconds, perhaps considering what he had just heard, before meeting Ned’s gaze again. “What is Winterfell like?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice and a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“Winterfell…” No words came to mind. How could he describe Winterfell to a kid who had never been outside the Iron Islands? Pyke, impressive as it was, paled when compared against the great castles of the mainland. Casterly Rock was nothing like Winterfell, and would have only misled the boy should it be used as a point of reference. Should he attempt to describe the architecture of Winterfell? The number and form of its towers? The weather? The surrounding area? The hills, the brooks, the forests, the wolves howling deep into the night?

Theon looked at him expectantly, waiting to hear from him the first impressions of his new home. Ned sighed wistfully.

“Winterfell is home,” Ned finally said. _Home._ Such a simple word that conveyed so much, so perfectly what Winterfell meant to him. And, gods willing, what it would mean for Theon Greyjoy. “I won’t lie to you, Theon. Winterfell is a cold, hard land.”

“Like the Islands?”

Ned couldn’t contain a chuckle. “Much worse than the Islands. Offtimes, snow falls during summer days, and keeping the hearth alive is a necessity rather than a commodity. And in winter…” Theon shivered at the thought, and Ned smiled. “But the people are warm and kind. Noble and generous. They’re good people. They’ll treat you kindly, provided you, too, are kind to them.”

“My father disliked kindness,” Theon said with a frown, eliciting the same reaction from Ned. “He said kindness was for weaklings too afraid of taking what’s theirs by force.”

“And how did that turn out for him, hmm?” Ned asked pointedly, once again trying to keep his anger in check. Theon somberly nodded, understanding his point. “Kindness is not a weakness,” Ned said, kneeling to face Theon at eye level. “It’s one of the greatest strengths a man can have. It’s doing what’s right.”

“I thought honour was doing what’s right, my lord?”

Ned smiled. “Doing the honourable thing and doing the right thing are usually one and the same, yes. But not always. Sometimes, the honourable thing and the right thing can be at odds with each other. And when that happens, you have to make a choice: do you do the honourable thing, even though you know it’s wrong? Do you do the right thing, even though it might bring dishonour to you and to your House? It is not a choice to be taken lightly, Theon, and you must learn to—”

He was interrupted by Jory entering the pavilion, his face guarded and unreadable.

“M’lord, Lord Tyrell agrees to meeting with you,” he stated.

“Great!” Ned stood up, smiling with satisfaction. “When?”

“Now.”

Ned’s smile disappeared from his face in an instant. He blinked in confusion.

Twice.

Thrice.

“Now?” he croaked finally, recovering from his surprise.

“Now,” Jory confirmed, a grimace in his face.

“... Huh.” _This has taken a turn for the better._ Ned turned to Theon, who was looking at him wide-eyed, confusion with a hint of sadness in his face. “I’m sorry Theon. We’ll continue talking when I return.”

“What am I supposed to do until then?” Theon asked him, reluctant to go back to his drawing.

Ned looked him up and down. He was a skinny boy, lacking in muscle. Well, that could be fixed. “Did they teach you swordplay back at Pyke?”

Theon grinned sheepishly. “A bit, yes, my lord.”

Ned nodded firmly. “Jory,” he said, turning towards his retainer, “take him out and see what he’s got.”

“Aye, m’lord. Come, boy,” his late friend’s son told Theon, not unkindly. “How are you with a sword?” he asked the boy as his lord left the pavilion towards his meeting.

“I think I’m alright, but my uncle always told me I was better with a bow,” Theon replied, excitement tentatively glimmering in his eyes. Jory nodded in impressed approval, the last thing Ned saw before the flaps of the tent closed behind him.

At times it stung Ned to see just how much Jory resembled his father Martyn, so long gone, buried under the red sands of Dorne. Still, this was not time for reminiscence, he decided, setting course towards the Tyrell pavilion. He knew that the following audiences he’d hold would have a transcendental effect on the future of Westeros, so important and far-reaching as they were. It was on his hands to make this world a better place.

The streets of a tourney grounds were always an interesting place; the veritable maze of tents and pavilions of lords and knights from every corner of the land had been set up outside the city gates. While it was modeled after a warcamp, the mood couldn’t be more different. It felt, indeed, very much like an enormous party. Squires drank and jested, merchants wandered across the streets of mud and gravel trying to sell their wares, and prostitutes looked for coin.

Fortunately for his aspirations, Ned reflected as he passed a bow-legged whore flirting with a pair of eager squires, Lord Tyrell was not a man known for his political wit… Or for any type of wit, for that matter. “Lord Oaf”, he was often called when people thought themselves away from Mace Tyrell’s hearing.

 _He should be an easy sell,_ Stark presumed, as the golden and ornate pavilion of the Lord of Highgarden appeared in the distance. _Which, of course, means he won’t be the one I’ll be dealing with_.

The guards at each side of the tent’s entrance nodded at his sight, signalling him to step in immediately.

Just as he expected, the person sitting on the chair on the other extreme of the pavilion was very much not Lord Mace Tyrell. He was older, smarter, thinner, and not exactly a “he”.

“The Honourable Lord Eddard Stark in the flesh,” Lady Olenna Tyrell greeted him, holding a cup of wine. “Hmph. I expected you to be taller.”

“My lady Tyrell,” Ned bowed his head in deference, forcing himself to put a surprised expression. He had to throw every bit of guile he had out the window. _This woman is a schemer all the way to the bone. Better play up the role of the man she expects me to be._ “It is my honour to finally make your acquaintance.”

“Soon you’ll regret doing so, I’m sure,” Olenna replied disinterestedly. “I am a busy woman, Lord Stark. My eldest grandson, Willas, is going to make his debut on the lists in a few hours, and I need to be there to mock my oaf of a son when he inevitably gets unhorsed.”

She was underestimating him. _Good._ After all, what did she see when she looked at him, strangers as they were? A barbaric northman, all brawn and no brain, albeit one who had a reputation of being a honourable and just man. In other words, not only an unequalled fool, but one that could be manipulated with extreme ease. _She believes herself to be smartest of us both. I would be wise to not attempt to disprove her._

“I wish your grandson the best of lucks in his first tourney, my lady,” Ned replied politely. “Who is he riding against?”

“Your brother,” Lady Olenna said to his surprise. _Benjen is in the lists?_ Ned had absolutely no idea. _He'd better not cripple nor kill the heir to Highgarden, though, because if he does…_ He dreaded to dwell on it. “Enough with the small talk. Why are you here?”

“My lady, pardon me for the offence, but I was expecting to speak with Lord Mace…” Ned lied blatantly, feigning confusion.

While Mace Tyrell was an impressionable man and easy to manipulate, his bluster, pomp and sense of self-importance was far too much for Ned to endure. As well, everybody with half a wit knew that the true ruler of Highgarden and the Reach was the wizened crone that sat in front of him. Ned could manipulate Mace Tyrell at his heart’s content, but if he didn’t have Olenna Tyrell on his side, it would all be for naught. And Olenna would rather die than letting her fool of a son take care of important diplomatic negotiations with the Warden of the North, he assumed.

“He’s busy,” she replied laconically.

“Surely he could make some time meeting with the Lord of Winterfell,” Ned added a pinch of arrogance to his words for good measure.

“He could,” Olenna conceded before narrowing her eyes, “but the seven hells will freeze over before I let him talk to you.”

Ned felt vindicated in his assumption. “Why would that be, my lady?”

“The fool worships you,” Olenna grumbled in annoyance. “He’d probably give you everything you ask of him in a silver platter just to please you. I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

He blinked. Now, that was not what he was expecting. “... What? Why would he… err… admire me?” This time, however, Ned did not feign confusion; it was all genuine.

“He’s alive because of you, you know. When you lifted the siege of Storm’s End, Stannis Baratheon wanted to chop his head and place it in a pike to rot, and he would have been in his right to do so. Yet, you stepped in his defense. He was your enemy, and you saved his life. My son can be a single-minded oaf, but he’s not without gratitude. Thanks to you, he was able to return home to his family. And, if it weren’t for you that day, little Margaery wouldn’t exist. He even said before she was born that if she were to be a boy, he would call her Eddard.”

Ned had no idea how to answer to that. “I… I feel honoured, my lady,” he eventually let out, rather pathetically.

“You shouldn’t,” Olenna rolled her eyes, annoyed. She saw Ned, so far, as a mere distraction to her, another mindless highborn fool that babbled on about honours and good wishes that she had to endure.

That was just what he wanted.

“Just tell me what you want before I die of old age,” she let out an irked sigh.

“As you wish, my lady. You see, the crops of the Reach are bountiful, and winter is coming. A rapprochement between Highgarden and Winterfell could only be beneficial to both of us.”

“I agree, yes,” Olenna said plainly. “We both stand to gain more by working together than by letting things continue their due course. The exact terms upon which we find agreement, however, remain to be seen.”

“My heir, Robb, and your granddaughter Margaery are more or less the same age, my lady,” Ned suggested with a boldness that would have both horrorised his younger self and made Brandon proud. But he needed to be bold; after all, Ned wanted, by making Lady Tyrell an unreasonable demand, to lure her into revealing what she wanted so he could then scale it down to what he truly desired and trick her into believing she had won the barter. Still, he was unsure if he could carry his plan out to fruition. _Brandon was always better at this sort of things. Even if he was unable to resist a pretty maid throwing herself at him,_  he added with a tinge of bitterness.

To say Olenna Tyrell wasn’t amused by the idea would be an understatement. Indeed, for a moment Ned had the impression that the elderly woman would jump at him at lightning speed and strangle the life out of him.

“So _what?”_ she acidly replied. “What am I supposed to say to that? ‘Oh, thank you for stopping the fool of my son from getting his head chopped and put on a spike, here, take my granddaughter’s maidenhead”? You presume too much of yourself, Stark.”

“My lady, forgive me if I have overstepped my boundaries.”

“Overstepped? You’ve done more than that. If you were anything less than Lord Paramount of the North I would kick you right out of my pavilion myself.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because unfortunately for me, we stand to gain more by dealing with you than by not doing so. I already said that. Are you deaf, boy?” Olenna tilted her head.

Ned purposely ignored her jab, almost as if he hadn’t listened to her. Having got the silent joke, Olenna glared at him, utterly and absolutely unamused. Indeed, Ned guessed she was seriously thinking on throwing him out of her tent, and for a moment he worried she actually would, but then she sighed.

“What we want is a direct access to your ironwood supply. The Florents have done their damndest best to assert a monopoly over all the ironwood trade that leaves the North towards the Reach, and sabotage whatever meagre scraps they’re forced to give us.”

“That’s a bold claim, my lady.”

“One I know for a fact to be true. Ever since the Targaryens were overthrown, we’ve been treated as pariahs for standing strong by their side. Our enemies take this as carte blanche to do what they please to further damage us,” the Queen of Thorns replied with contempt. “After all, is the king going to defend those who fought against him? Against his goodsister’s family?”

 _Of course not._ Even if Robert wanted to – which he didn’t –, the Lannisters would never allow another great house to flourish if it meant it could become a rival to their hegemony. And no other house threatened the golden lion of Casterly Rock as much as the Tyrells of Highgarden.

“What we do _not_ want, however,” Olenna continued, “is a marriage alliance with the North. I don’t care if it’s near unbreakable, your ironwood is not worth my granddaughter, and if that’s your price, we won’t pay it,” she said, sincere affection in her inflection. “Mace wants to make her queen, you know.” Her tone was unreadable, ungiving of her thoughts on the matter.

“I wouldn’t hold out much hope for that. Not only the Florents would make life impossible for the Baratheons if they learned about it, but the King has been rather insistent about wanting his heir to marry a Stark,” Ned made sure to put an annoyed grimace. Olenna took the bait.

“You don’t seem much delighted at the prospect of your daughter being queen.”

“I would rather not hand my daughter over to the lions.”

Lady Olenna Tyrell stared intently at Lord Stark, her cunning eyes boring deep into him. Ned made sure to drop the naïve and half-witted lord act immediately, staring back at her with the same intensity she had in her green eyes. A long moment of silence passed by before she called out of the tent.

“Left!”

At once, one of the two tall and muscular men that guarded the entry peered into the tent.

“Yes, m’lady?” he asked with a comically reedy voice, absurdly mismatched to his brawny and masculine appearance.

“Practice swordplay with Right. As loud as possible. Make as much of a ruckus as you can.”

If the man was confused, he did not show it. Ned certainly wasn’t. _Wise move._

“Yes, m’lady,” ‘Left’ nodded, and then he was gone.

Only as soon as the song of steel, the yells and curses both twins shot at each other and the cheering of an impromptu crowd erupted, did Olenna Tyrell allow herself a small smirk towards Ned.

“It seems you’re not as much of a fool as I dreaded you to be. Good. Now we can talk.”

“‘Not as much of a fool’? A high compliment, coming from the Queen of Thorns herself,” Ned rebuked, an ironic smile on his lips.

“Careful, now, or I will take it back,” Olenna warned him, but it was lacking the contemptuous tone she had used through the whole conversation. She was, indeed, taking him seriously. _I consider that an absolute win._ “Please, do explain yourself before the Spider has the opportunity to spy on us.”

“A stag sits on the throne, yet it’s the lions the ones who rule. King Robert’s son is a Baratheon in name and blood, but King’s Landing and the Realm dances at Lord Tywin’s tune.”

“Probably ‘The Rains of Castamere’, gods know he’s fond of that one,” Olenna snarked under her breath. Ned had to agree; Lord Tywin had a morbid fixation on the massacre he had brutally executed in his youth, and never lost an occasion to remind the world of it.

“He has filled all the high positions of power and bureaucracy with Lannister bannermen or lackeys,” Ned continued without missing a beat. “They are virtually unopposed, establishing a chokehold that threatens to strangle the hard-fought peace so many have bled to protect. For the good of the realm, they need to be stopped.”

“And what do you propose for that purpose?”

“An alliance,” he stated. “Between the North and the Reach.”

“Now that’s a concept,” Olenna snarked dryly. True enough, the relations of the North and the Reach were as distant as their lands. Not even before the Conquest did they ever interact with each other out of their own initiative, instead just through any shared relations with a third party.

_An error I seek to remedy._

“The North is already allied with the Riverlands through my marriage with Lady Catelyn, and with the Vale through her sister Lysa’s marriage with Lord Arryn. We already present a powerful block, but with the Knights of the Reach standing by our side, we would be unbeatable.”

“So you _do_ want my granddaughter’s maidenhead for your son, huh,” Olenna muttered contemptuously as she sipped her wine with distaste, having understood the purpose of bringing up the aforementioned marriages to the conversation.

“What I want, my lady, is an alliance with House Tyrell to contain Casterly Rock. A union by marriage between the heir of Winterfell and a daughter of Highgarden would only secure such a pact.”

“And for what intent, hmm?” Before Ned could reply, she cut him off. “Oh, yes, yes, I know, to contain the Lannisters. And how exactly would you do that? Do you intend to march on the Westerlands, and drive Lord Tywin out from under his literal rock? You would break the King’s Peace you wish to protect. On what lawful charges would you act against him? There are none, Stark. Your dear King Robert pardoned him for his atrocities against the Targaryens. As things stand, it’s undoable. Your plan is merely hypothetical, useful for war but redundant in peace. There is no need for it.”

“No need for it? I disagree.”

“Oh? And why would that be?” Olenna tilted her head, but Ned couldn’t tell if she was truly curious or just playing with him. Still, he hadn’t come this far to get his whole plan rejected, so he appealed to the most basic instincts of House Tyrell.

“You said it yourself, my lady. House Tyrell currently is a pariah, given your past loyalties to the dragons. Good marriages must surely be hard to come by,” a fleeting, barely noticeable shadow passed through the elderly lady’s visage before she managed to squash it. He had hit a nerve. _Good._ “Furthermore, House Florent is already linked by marriage to House Baratheon via Lord Stannis; I would expect them to lobby vehemently against any warming of the diplomatic relations with House Tyrell; after all, they’ve already damaged your ironwood trade out of mere spite. Just how far would they go to stop your house from reentering the high politics?” Ned paused, letting his words sink in. “However, House Stark can vouch for you. We can help each other, and reduce the Lannister influence from the inside.”

“And if you had it your way, we would have lost our most precious daughter to the North in the process.”

“One among many roses, I am sure.” House Tyrell was not lacking in cousins and cadet branches, after all.

“None more treasured than her,” The Queen of Thorns rebuked him, then snapped her tongue. “We won’t agree to a betrothal, nor a military alliance, and that’s final. We won’t compromise ourselves that deep into the long term, when for all we know Tywin Lannister can slip down the stairs tomorrow and break his neck, or that bitch he has for a daughter can die in childbirth.” She paused for a moment. “What we will agree, however, is to the rapprochement of trading and diplomacy. We might not be allies, Stark, but that doesn’t mean we cannot be friends.”

“The same, I believe, can be said about the children,” he insisted. “They may not be betrothed, but they can be friends. They can continue the friendship between our houses. Perhaps it could also lead to fosterages and life-long ties that—”

“You just won’t let it go, won’t you?” Lady Tyrell harrumphed in annoyance, cutting him off. “Fine. They’ll keep correspondence with each other. Happy? Now shut up about it and let us speak terms.”

 

* * *

 

The day before the war broke out, her goodsister had told her that she didn’t have to choose whether to be a lady or a warrior; that she could be both, embracing who she was, embracing her Mormont ancestry.

And so she had tried. The Greyjoy Rebellion had been, in a way, the counterpart to her life back home. There, her motherhood had been irrelevant. As she mowed ironborn after ironborn down with her twin axes, no one cared for the fact that she was a married woman, or a mother. All they cared for was her skill with her weapons, her ability to slay the ironborn. After five years as Lady Dacey Stark, she had stepped back into her life as Dacey Mormont of Bear Island.

And they had won. Balon Greyjoy defeated, the forces of the crown were now settling back into their lives.

_I guess we’ll never know._

But not her.

What was her life even supposed to _be?_ Was it motherhood back at Winterfell? The exhilarating dance of battle she had experienced at Pyke? Both?

Neither?

Neither had felt right for her. Through motherhood, she felt like she was betraying who she really was; like she was betraying the little girl who cared for nothing else than besting her little sister Aly in the courtyard.

Yet, in the battlefield she felt like she was forsaking Anton, her little wolf that looked so much like a bear, that observed the world quietly with his smart brown eyes, whose giggle lighted up even the darkest of days.

In her attempts to follow her goodsister’s advice, she had ended up going nowhere, adrift in limbo.

“You look worse than I do, coz,” a man’s gravelly voice startled her, making her turn towards its source. “What is it?”

She couldn’t help but feel immensely guilty for Lord Jorah’s wound. Her cousin had been so intent on keeping an eye on her during the battle that he had gotten careless for his own safety and had fallen victim to a stray arrow. The arrowhead had pierced his knee, yet it hadn’t been able to come out the other side. Despite the maesters best attempts, his wound had festered.

There had been no other alternative than to cut his leg off.

“Nothing,” Dacey faked a smile. “How are you holding up?”

“The worst has passed,” he shrugged. “The pain has been diminishing, and Lord Stark was kind enough to get me this wheeled chair to carry myself around these parts,” he patted the chair’s armrest for emphasis.

“Has it been difficult?”

“Well, not so much once you get used to the fact that you’re never going to walk again. After that, it’s just smooth sailing,” Jorah replied without bitterness, just calm resignation. His mask suddenly fell apart. “Or it would be if there was at least one bloody ramp in this damn city!” he suddenly shouted in frustration, shaking his wheelchair.

Dacey chuckled in spite of herself. “Stairs must be a nightmare.”

“Oh, they’re my new mortal enemy,” Jorah shook his head. “I’m going to lose a fortune setting up ramps all across the keep.”

“Is that going to be necessary?”

“Unless you expect me to crawl across the keep, then aye,” he said with an eyebrow raised, smirking.

“No, I mean, how long are you going to be stuck on that thing?”

“Until my leg is sturdy enough to resist some kind of replacement. A stick, most likely. Still, I wouldn’t hold my breath. I’m old, girl.”

“You’re not that old,” Dacey protested.

“Old enough nonetheless. At this point, it’d be easier to adjust my life to a wheelchair than to learn to walk again. Which reminds me...” Jorah said, turning around and unslinging from the back of his wheelchair a long, narrow package.

Dacey’s eyes widened in shock, looking horrified at her cousin, who was tearing the packaging apart. “No,” she muttered softly. “No, I– I cannot…”

“Yes, you can,” he said. “This is yours now.”

In his hands he held Longclaw, the ancestral valyrian bastard sword that had been in House Mormont for generations, handed down from father to son, always owned by the Lord or Lady of Bear Island. The ruby red eyes of the pale-stone, bear-headed pommel stared deep into her soul.

Life was an amusing thing. More than once she had dreamed of wielding her uncle’s valyrian sword, but she knew that that privilege was always meant to be her cousin’s. And now that he was offering to give it to her, she couldn’t bring herself to accept it.

“I… I can’t…” Dacey tried and failed to answer.

“If not you, then who? I will not walk again, girl. A sword such as this is lost on a cripple such as me.”

“But… you’re the Lord of Bear Island, coz. It belongs to you.”

“It belongs to whomever I say it belongs to, and I say that it belongs to you.”

“I can’t accept this, Jorah,” she repeated, her voice wracked with awe and emotion.

The crippled lord wouldn’t have it. “Nonsense. What am I supposed to do with Longclaw, crippled as I am? Hang it over the fireplace and let it gather dust? No. Valyrian steel was forged to be used, and with you, it will. You’re a good warrior, Dacey. Give it the life it’s meant to have. I won’t take a no for an answer,” he stated, kindly yet firmly, handing the sheathed sword to his younger cousin.

“I…” Dacey’s hands were trembling as she grabbed hold of Longclaw, unsheathing it slightly to admire the distinctive rippled patterns of Valyrian steel. “... Thank you,” she nodded finally. “When he comes of age, I will give it back for your son to hold.”

“Right,” Jorah scoffed. At Dacey’s quizzical expression, Jorah rolled his eyes. “I’m old, crippled and widowed. I doubt I’ll be having a son anytime soon.”

“You’re thirty five, Jorah. You’re still of age to marry again and have a child.”

“And who would want to marry a cripple? Hmm?” Unexpectedly for her, Jorah’s voice was completely lacking in bitterness.

“A cripple who is the Lord of Bear Island.”

Jorah shivered in dread. “That just makes it worse.”

“What are you talking about? It’s not rich, but Bear Island is a good, sturdy place to call home.”

“Most maids do not dream of living her days on a wooden keep on an island in the middle of nowhere.”

“Most maids are idiots, then,” Dacey declared firmly, earning a chuckle from her cousin.

“Perhaps they are. Now, are you going to tell me what has you so downcast, or will you continue stalling in hopes I’ll just forget about it?”

A shiver went down Dacey’s spine. “What?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "I– I already told you I’m fine.”

“Right, and I’m a knight with two legs who's going to win this tourney and marry a rich and young highborn lady,” Jorah said sarcastically. Dacey tried to protest, but he paid her no mind. “I’m the closest thing you ever had for a father, girl,” Jorah raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You can’t lie to me.”

That was depressingly true. Dacey had never met her father, and no amount of rumours regarding her parentage would change that simple, heart-breaking fact. Perhaps her mother Maege was a skinchanger who bedded bears, as her sister Aly used to say. Perhaps she had a lowborn lover, or even a wildling one. But what difference did it make, in the end? She still was a fatherless child.

But she had a cousin, over fifteen years older than her. He had taken her under his wing, teaching her much of what her mother, Maege, had been unable to. Jorah had been her sponsor, her backer, and her accomplice. Whenever she needed someone to speak to, to make sense of her tangled thoughts, her cousin had always been there for her.

Just as he was there for her now, one more time.

Dacey sighed, defeated. “It’s Benjen,” she said finally, biting her lip.

“Problems in paradise?” Jorah asked good-naturedly.

“What paradise?” Dacey snorted bitterly. “Our marriage is a sham. He barely looks at me. He refuses to spend time with me. And now,” she gasped, suddenly realising she was crying, “now he says he will leave for the Wall as soon as we have a third child… I’m half-tempted to forbid him from my bed, just to spite him,” she spat sourly.

“Would that make you happy? Truly?”

“What should I do, then?” she sniffed, “open my legs and pump two babies and be done with it? Because if you think that I’m happy being some sort of brood mare, I’ll cut your other leg off.” She raised her left hand, still clutching Longclaw, a few inches, as if to add weight to the threat.

Jorah shook his head.

“Tell me, do you love him?”

“How could I not? He’s a Stark. I grew up near worshipping the very ground they stepped on. When you told me I was going to marry one of them… it was the happiest day of my life. I was so naïve,” she scoffed, tears running down her cheeks.

“That was not what I asked, Dacey", he said firmly. "Do you love him?”

_No._

_What has the man ever done for me?_

_He ignores me, he barely looks at me, he refuses to spend time with me, he’ll abandon me as soon as I birth a third child… He’ll abandon his own children!_

_No, I don’t love him! If anything, I —_

“I do,” she croaked, now weeping openly. “Gods help me, I do.”

“And does he love you?”

“I... I don’t know.”

“Then let _me_ be the one to tell you that he does. He really does.”

She almost scoffed. “And how would you know?”

“I saw how he looked at you in Pyke. I’d recognise that lovestruck gaze anywhere; it was the same look Lyra gave me.”

Lyra Glover. Jorah’s first wife, a petite girl, sister to Lord Galbart. A sweet and kind woman, who had been unable to give him any children. She had died following her third miscarriage, not long before Dacey was married off to Benjen Stark. Lyra and Jorah’s marriage, though childless, had been happy and loving. Her cousin had been an absolute wreck after her death.

Still...

“So what if he loves me? What does it matter? He’ll be going to the Wall. I can’t change his mind. I can’t. In the end, it doesn’t make any difference.”

“It makes _every_ difference,” Jorah corrected firmly. “Nothing lasts forever, girl. Everything has an end. And that’s why life is so beautiful. That’s why we treasure so much those moments, deep in the night, when all we have and all we care about is holding each other in our arms. Because tomorrow will be another day, and you’ll have to leave that embrace. Because those moments won’t last…” Jorah sighed sadly. “Because sooner or later, one of you is going to die, and that moment might be the last one. We just have to do the best out of what little time the Gods seem fit to grant us.”

She didn’t know what to say. “I…”

“Should we stop trying to make sense out of our lives, just because one day we’re going to die? Should we give up and await our inevitable demise?” Jorah didn’t wait for her to reply. “Of course not. Death might be the end, but what happens before it is what makes it all worth it.”

“Are you telling me that I shouldn’t care about Benjen going to the Wall?”

“I’m telling you that it _doesn’t matter_ the length or the ending of your marriage. What matters is _what_ you do while you’re with him, and if you make each day count. Not a day goes by in which I wish I had done more with Lyra,” he stated with a wistful smile. “But she’s dead. Dead and buried in the crypts below Deepwood Motte, and I can’t even visit her tomb. But _your_ Lyra, he’s out there. He’s still with you. And he will be with you for some time, before he leaves and never comes back. Enjoy him while you still have him. Otherwise, you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life.” Jorah looked directly at her eyes, a world of grief behind his soft smile. “Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.”

 

* * *

 

“You summoned me, Lord Stark?”

He wished he hadn’t.

But sacrifices were needed to be made. Deals with the devil must be struck, for peace to be feasible.

“Aye, I did, Lord Bolton. We haven’t had the opportunity to speak with each other ever since the rebellion ended.”

Roose Bolton was much like a sword without a hilt: there was no safe way to handle him, for you would always cut yourself. Playing up a character as he did with Lady Tyrell would do him no good. With his cold, dead grey eyes, Bolton would be able to see through even the best mummer.

“No, we haven’t, my lord,” Bolton duly agreed. “Your courier told me you had a proposal for me.”

 _Straight to the point. Good._ Truth be told, Ned was thankful for it; he had wracked his brain for any possible smalltalk to have with Lord Bolton, but the mere concept of it was unnerving beyond reason.

 _The Boltons used to flay their enemies and wear their skins as cloaks,_ Old Nan used to tell him, _and no cloak was as precious as the one fashioned from Stark skin._

“I have,” Ned nodded, suppressing the shiver that threatened to go down his spine. “You see, Lord Bolton, it is no secret that our houses have a long history of enmity and strife. Through the centuries, the Kings of Winter and the Red Kings of the Dreadfort waged countless wars for the supremacy of the North. Yet now, you have followed me forth to two wars in less of a decade, and served with nothing less than loyalty and faithfulness. I am proud that we have left our past behind us.”

That was a blatant lie that neither of them believed. Although it was true that Starks and Boltons hadn’t fought a war between them for centuries, that didn’t mean they weren’t rivals, their conflicts fought over charters, marriages, and rights, all within the framework of the realm’s peace.

“House Bolton stands loyally by Winterfell’s side. So it has been, and so it will be,” Bolton lied so smoothly, Ned almost believed him. _Almost._ Only a fool would trust a Bolton.

_I don’t need to trust him. I need him to be content so he won’t stab me in the back._

“We stand together. We fight together. We die together,” Roose’s face was indecipherable at Ned’s words. “But that does not mean Winterfell and the Dreadfort have been true friends to each other.”

“I do not understand, my lord. Our enmity is long dead,” Bolton frowned, feigning confusion.

"It has," Ned said with as much conviction as he had love for the Lannisters, "but lack of enmity does not equal friendship. I intend to change that."

“And what do you have in mind?” Bolton sounded genuinely curious. Ned knew it to be a farce, however. The Lord of the Dreadfort, cold and calculative, must have surely realised it as soon as he entered the pavilion, if not as soon as he was summoned.

“Your son, Domeric. How old is he?”

“He’s eight, my lord. A most accomplished young boy. He enjoys reading history, and shows great promise on the saddle,” he said, with as much emotion as if he were talking about a particularly well-behaved horse. _Is that what passes for fatherly affection for him?_ Ned was aghast.

“Have you considered having him fostered?”

“I have,” Lord Bolton didn’t miss a beat. “Nothing has been yet agreed to, however. His mother, Bethany, wishes to send him to Barrowton with his aunt, and I do not see any reason to disagree. The Redforts in the Vale are also an option. Unless my Lord Stark has a different proposal…?”

“I do,” Ned retched internally at the man’s eagerness. Although, on second thought, perhaps taking Domeric away from Roose’s parenting could prove to be even more beneficial than he thought. “I offer to you that Domeric be fostered at Winterfell. He will be raised alongside my trueborn sons, and once he’s old enough, he will serve as my squire. He will be joined to Winterfell by friendship and brotherhood.”

“Only by friendship?” Bolton shrewdly asked. “Surely, our bonds can be much tighter than mere friendship.”

Ned pursed his lips, fighting down the bile in his throat at the idea of not only marrying his baby girl to a Bolton, but of using her as a bargaining chip.

“Your son is young. My daughter, even more so,” he eventually stated with distaste. “But they will grow together. We shall see.”

Fortunately for him, Lord Bolton did not call further attention to the suggestion, but his cold eyes had a new glimmer to them evidencing he was pleased by it.

“That’s my proposal to you, Lord Bolton,” Ned stated, then recounted for both of their sakes. “Domeric shall be fostered at Winterfell. At Winterfell, he will become friends with my sons and heirs. At Winterfell, he’ll grow into a fine young lordling, worthy heir to the Dreadfort. At Winterfell, perhaps he’ll find love.”

Ned paused, and observed Roose Bolton’s ungiving, pale face before concluding, soft as a whisper:

“And at Winterfell, Domeric will be safe from your bastard.”

If Lord Roose Bolton could ever be caught off guard, Ned surmised that was one such moment. After a long, pregnant silence, Bolton spoke.

“What do you know?” he asked, quieter than usual. The First Night had been outlawed for over a century. By law, any transgressor was a rapist, and should be punished as such.

“That, and more,” he stated laconically.

Ever since Ned had returned to Winterfell after Robert’s rebellion, he had set up his own web of spies and informants; honest, good, and hardworking men of many walks of life that shared a loyalty to the Starks, and reported the happenings across the North directly to him.

To be honest, at first he had done it because he wished to learn firsthand how the smallfolk were affected by his edicts and ruling; to see if his policies were taking the intended effect, or, on the contrary, if they failed due to unforeseen circumstances. Yet, this way he had found out many unsavoury things about his bannermen that might be of use if he ever had the need to strong-arm them, such as Lord Galbart Glover’s unorthodox sexual appetites, or Lord Halys Hornwood’s whole brood of unrecognised bastards... Or Lord Bolton’s practice of the First Night, among other crimes.

 _Many_ other crimes.

Lord Bolton seemed to mull on the revelation, his brow frowned in contemplation.

“And what will you _do_ with such... knowledge?”

“Our houses have been foes for millennia. Let us put an end to the strife once and for all. Let the North enter a golden age unlike any other, heralded by a Stark and Bolton diarchy.” The extortion was left unspoken. _Gods, is this the kind of man I have to be?_ he despaired internally. “Are we in agreement, Lord Bolton?”

Bolton stared right at him with his cold, dead eyes. They were filled with something reminiscent of approval. It made Ned feel sick inside.

“Aye. We are, Lord Stark.”

 

* * *

 

“How did I even get here?” Benjen whispered, stunned.

“You weren’t terrible at it, I suppose.”

“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Benjen looked down to Ned, eyes wide. “I’ve always been terrible at jousting. I was shit at it. You know that. Jousting had always been Brandon’s thing, not mine.” He looked up at the stands, running high and long across the harbour of Lannisport, filled to the brim with eager and rowdy spectators. He spoke again, more panic seeping into his voice with each word. “How haven’t I embarrassed myself yet? How have I won the tilts? And how the fuck am I at the final joust of a fucking tournament, Ned?!”

Ned shrugged as he secured his brother’s saddle straps. “Beginner's luck?” Benjen’s squire, Asher Forrester, the second son of Lord Gregor, had gotten himself pissdrunk in a drinking game with the other squires last night and failed to appear for his duties, so Ned had stepped up, without giving a care to how unprestigious it was for a great lord to do such menial tasks.

Benjen didn’t answer, busy as he was hyperventilating and panicking while he stared at the other side of the grounds.

There, sitting on his magnificent white horse, was ser Jaime Lannister, the son of Lord Tywin of Casterly Rock. He was clad from head to toe in intricately designed golden armour, mixing both the style of his white Kingsguard enameled plate, with rounded lion head pauldrons honouring his Lannister blood. His helmet was fashioned after a lion’s head, his eyes peeping through its snarling, fearsome mouth. Truly, he was an impressive, imposing sight.

Benjen’s vision was narrowing, his breath accelerating by the second.

“And I’m riding against the fucking Kingslayer…”

“Hey.”

“Oh gods I think I’m hyperventilating.

"Hey, Benjen."

"Oh gods I'm definitely hyperventilating and I'm panicking and I'm going to die and—"

“Hey, hey, hey, Benjen! Look at me!” Blue eyes met grey ones. “You are going to be alright,” Ned reassured him. “It’s just a joust. Silly southron entertainment.”

Benjen looked positively panicked, but he gulped hardly. After breathing deeply and exhaling a few times, he managed to calm himself. Just a little.

“Why didn’t we go straight back to Winterfell as soon as the war was over?” he asked with a trembling voice.

“There were some things I had to do first.”

“Aye, but why am _I_ here?”

“Because you’re not a smart man.”

“Fair enough,” he chuckled mirthlessly.

In all honesty, he didn’t want to go back to Winterfell. What was there for him, if not the promise of the same repetitive, pointless existence he had led until the rebellion? He didn’t want to go home. He wanted to live life as he was meant to do, and, being unable to leave to the Wall yet, competing in a tourney at Lannisport had seemed like just the opportunity he was looking for.

What he hadn’t expected was to actually _win._

In his first tilt, he had unhorsed Willas Tyrell, the heir to Highgarden, a boy greener than the flowery surcoat of his house. The youngling had hit the floor hard, but he’d recovered quickly with no injuries, and had conceded him the victory without any further combat. Ser Hosteen Frey and ser Ryman Frey had followed, both falling off their horses without much effort on Benjen’s part, and both beaten on the melee. He came close to being beaten when he faced off against the splendid Ser Baelor Hightower, but against all odds, fortune favoured him and Hightower had been the one to fall to the ground. Gallantly, Hightower had yielded to him in recognition of his good hit.

And now he was here. On the final joust of the tourney.

“Ser Jaime of House Lannister, Knight of the Kingsguard,” called the herald. “Lord Benjen of House Stark. Come forth and prove your valour.”

“Try not to get killed,” Ned said as he handed Benjen his lance, made of a brittle wood that would stand no chance in a true fight.

“You have to take the fun out of everything, don’t you, big brother?” he japed as Ned returned to his seat of honour in the tribune, trying to assuage his nerves. He was unsuccessful, his hands trembling on his lance.

Benjen urged his horse forward to the royal pulpit, where he and his foe presented themselves in front of the King and Queen, and dipped their lances towards them. Ned, sitting by the King’s right side, nodded at him encouragingly, but Lord Tywin, by his daughter’s left, only levelled at him a cold stare that made Benjen shiver with the promise of terrible retaliation should Stark kill his son.

If he had been nervous about riding against Jaime Lannister, now he was near unmanned by the stare Lord Tywin had shot him. Benjen knew Tywin Lannister would wipe all of House Stark from existence and raze Winterfell to the ground if he so much as scratched his golden son by accident; what would he do if Benjen deliberately killed him? He didn’t know the answer, and he did not want to find out. He did know, however, that he had done more than enough damage to his family for a lifetime. He’d rather lose than risk Lord Tywin’s wrath.

The king, instead of wishing them a good bout, only nodded at them absent-mindedly, very much unhappy at the water that filled his goblet instead of wine.

With a grimace, Benjen brought down his helmet’s visor, and trotted back to the west end of the lists. The herald sounded his trumpet, and the crowd exploded in cheers and screams in anticipation, wishing their favourite victory.

Reluctantly, Benjen dug his heels upon his trusty destrier’s flanks, starting at a slow trot that slowly built up into a sprint. Ser Jaime’s white steed approached just as swiftly, his rider’s magnific armour claterring with the motion, and his lance pointing straight at Benjen’s shield.

Both lances broke against their opponent’s shield in an explosion of wood and splinters. Neither rider fell, instead riding forth to rearm themselves before facing off again.

“Lance!” he ordered his new servant, a young stable hand Ned had commanded to take his place. He observed warily at his foe on the other side of the list, as their horses started their run.

 _He’s going to move his lance at the last second_ , Benjen thought with certainty. _He’s going to go for my head._ It was a sure tactic to bring down your foe, although one so dishonourable it was commonly scorned upon by knights. Then again, he was facing against Jaime Lannister. What honour did the Kingslayer still have? He would be a fool to put it beyond him, especially when such dishonour would bring him victory. Only a few yards separated them when Benjen raised his shield.

It turned out to be a mistake. Ser Jaime’s lance never shifted place and landed right in Benjen’s now unshielded flank, but the steel held true and his foe’s lance was deflected before snapping in half. Benjen’s lance, on the contrary, hit squarely in Lannister’s shield.

Not that it mattered; the impact of Lannister’s strike had taken him off dangerously off balance. Despite his best attempts at the contrary, Benjen was unable to stabilise himself on the saddle and fell cleanly to the ground with a loud thud.

 _The sky is so blue…_ he observed as he laid flat on his back.

Although he had fell, winded and his left side very much aching, Benjen knew himself blessed; had the lance’s angle not been perfect, it would have pierced the steel and drive itself deep into his gut, rather than be deflected by the curvature of his chestplate.

Before he could rise to continue the fight, ser Jaime was upon him, still high on his horse.

“Yield,” he ordered, pointing his sword down at him.

There was no point resisting or trying to fight back.

“I yield, my good ser,” Benjen replied, as he reincorporated himself with some difficulty. “Victory is yours.”

Kingsguards were sworn to celibacy, so it was always a reason for gossip whenever one of them won a tourney and the time came to crown a Queen of Love and Beauty. Once the herald had handed him the wreath of flowers, the Kingslayer, perhaps most sensibly, rode his horse towards the royal pulpit.

“My queen, you seem to have misplaced your crown,” ser Jaime proclaimed gallantly, as he tipped his lance towards his sister.

Queen Cersei’s face was a perfect mask, dignified, unreadable and still as stone, a tremulous smile the only sign she had listened to him. “You honour me, my good ser. I thank you, and shall wear it in your name.” Sitting besides her, the king rolled his eyes in contempt.

Benjen raised his eyebrows in amusement. It was a deft move on the part of the Kingslayer to put any rumours about possible unallowed romantic liaisons to rest by crowning as Queen of Love and Beauty not only his queen, whom he was sworn to serve and protect, but his sister as well. Some on the audience voiced disappointment, surely feeling robbed of the gossip.

 _Oh well_ , he shrugged as he left the lists for his thankfully nearby pavilion, already unstrapping his uncomfortable vambraces. Benjen winced when he took out his breastplate, catching sight of the huge bruise that tinted his skin where Jaime Lannister’s lance had hit him. _Still, it was not a bad showing. Not everyone can say they finished second place in a tourney, let alone their first one_.

Had he won, he intended to crown his own wife as Queen of Love and Beauty, but it seemed that it was not meant to be.

_And to think a few days ago we were fighting like cat and dog._

A day after their discussion on the Lannisport docks, Dacey had come into his tent, a determined look on her face. He had expected her to deservedly rip into him for his irresponsibility. To call him a craven and a fool. To vent all her frustration on him, if not outright punch him senseless.

What he did not expect, however, was for her to cross the tent and kiss him savagely, as if her life depended on it. Where her words had been unable to breach the walls he had built around himself, her touch had succeeded.

“Tomorrow you’ll leave for the Wall,” she had told him, holding his head with her hands to maintain eye contact as they rolled on his bed in a fit of passion, “but today we’ll live.”

 _Another crime to pay penance for at the Wall._  He had stolen Dacey Mormont, beautiful, brave Dacey Mormont, from the man who was meant to marry her, after all. Living the life another man was meant to have. He had condemned her to a live of unfulfillment, insatisfaction and unhappiness, robbing her of the chance of marrying a man who could love her as she deserved in return and grow old with her.

And yet, he could no longer bring himself to walk out of it as he had done so many times before. His resolve to reject what he felt himself to be unworthy of had faltered, eroded by years of suppression. His voice failed him when he tried to speak up, and no further words had been exchanged between them that night, only groans and moans of pleasure.

In the end, he came to realise during the following days, he no longer cared whether or not he was worthy of this life. So what if he didn’t deserve Dacey Mormont? They had married in front of the heart tree of Winterfell’s godswood, and he had fathered her child. He was still going to leave for the Night’s Watch once his third child – or perhaps his third _son,_ he had to admit he wasn't entirely sure yet – was born, but, in the meantime, he would enjoy her as long as he had her in his arms, for the nights at the Wall were cold and lonely, and Dacey was warm and lovely.

 _Speaking of warm and lovely,_  he thought immediately when his wife entered his tent, her face flushed and a determined look on her dark eyes.

“Forgive me for not bringing you your deserved crown, my lady,” Benjen stood up, a tired smile on his sweaty and dirty face.

“You are my champion all the same,” Dacey smiled as she cupped his head and met his lips. After a moment, she pulled out and made a grimace as she looked at her hands, clammy with his transpiration. “Eurghh…”

Benjen chuckled. “That’s on you. You should have waited until after I had cleaned myself up.”

“I’d rather be covered with muck and grime from head to toe than waste any more of what little time we have left,” she stated, her cheeks even redder than before, then kissed him again, deeper and more intently. They took as long as they felt like to explore each other’s mouths, savouring each other as if it were their very first time.

It didn’t take long before Dacey’s tongue began wrestling against his, faster, almost hungrily as she pushed him back against his chair. Benjen’s breastplate was knocked off the edge with the impact, making a loud noise as it hit the ground.

“Whoah, careful there,” he mumbled without a glance towards his fallen armour, his hands eagerly running up and down her hips.

“I don’t care,” Dacey panted, her breathing shallow as she straddled him. “Take off your pants.”

Their twins, Harald and Lyarra, were conceived on that day. When he took sight of them, Benjen insisted 'they only count as one'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Wall of Assorted Trivia: 
> 
> > I'm shit at romance; just ask my ex. That being said, I hope I didn't do too bad portraying the relationship between Benjen and Dacey. It's not straightforward, of course, but they're (late) teenagers trying to make sense of their lives.
> 
> > Theon's brothers were physically abusive to him. It wouldn't be much of a stretch to assume Balon was, as well. He certainly didn't pull his punches when they met once again in 298.
> 
> > In CK2 the AI will immediately accept the betrothal between Robb and Margaery because, let's be honest, it's an excellent match. However, as the mantra of the plot goes, _"Real life is more complex than that."_ CK2 can't take into consideration Mace's ambitions, nor Olenna's scheming. So Ned is, as things stand, unable to reach the agreement he desired with the Tyrells. However, he left the tent with more than what he had before going in, so he's taking that as a win upon which he can build. The correspondence between Robb and Margaery was granted because Olenna believes she can keep her granddaughter's mind straight despite what influence it may have, and because she was annoyed with Ned's (deliberate) insistence on such an minor term; after all, she believes it to be a minor sacrifice needed to get him to shut up.
> 
> > Margaery, here, was born on the 27/07/284. This is because she's described as "no older than Robb" [1] (which I take as meaning "younger than Robb"). Robb was conceived around february of the 283, given that Ned and Cat's marriage was after the Battle of the Bells (which was already in 283, january most likely). Problem is, at that time, Mace was already laying siege to Storm's End, and had been doing so for over two months. He wasn't there to conceive his daughter and still have her being born after Robb. So I switched Margaery's date of birth to july 284, as Mace conceived her _after_ his return to Highgarden in october 283, around the same time Robb and Jon were being born. So, indeed, Mace does owe Margaery's existance to Ned's intervention.  
> This leaves the following birthdates for the other Tyrell siblings: Willas: 276. Garlan: 277. Loras: 282. Margaery: 284.
> 
> > There is no textual evidence that backs the idea that Willas's first tourney, the one that crippled him, was the one at Lannisport [2]. However, neither there is any textual evidence that _denies_ it [3], so I'm taking the liberty of saying, yes, he was crippled at Lannisport. However, as Jorah got Skyrim'ed last chapter, the draw of the tilts were different. The end result was that Willas didn't face against the Red Viper, instead being unhorsed without major incident by Benjen Stark, and inadvertently saving his leg.  
> But just as only death can pay for life, only a leg can pay for a leg.  
> Perfectly balanced, as all things should be.
> 
> > No Fs for Jorah's wounded leg?  
> Fine.  
> Be like that.  
> I've cut it off.  
> His blood is in your hands.
> 
> > Roose Bolton is, with a CK2 intrigue stat of _38_ (10+ is decent, 20+ is amazing, 30+ is **INSANE** ), a very dangerous foe to have. Fortunately, one can make a non-agression pact with him in order to bind him to the Starks and keep him loyal. Namely, betrothing Sansa to Domeric. As you, Ned Stark, are his liege lord, he'll rarely, if ever, reject the proposal.  
> Then again, in CK2 Roose is a loyalist, while in canon... he's not. Roose, as I understand him, is an immensely pragmatic man; he has his own ambitions, and is ruthless in their pursuit, but if he has no clear way to accomplish them, he'd rather scrap them alltogether than bet on the wrong horse. As well, the future of his house hinges on literally one last person, a boy of 8 [4], while his teenaged bastard son [5] is starting to wreak havoc.
> 
> > Next chapter is going to be a timeskip-and-multiPOV-fest. There's a lot of ground to cover, and sadly, it's too much for brief exposition, but too little for complete separate chapters. Best case scenario, some of said POVs will extend themselves enough to be stand-alone (if short; ~3k words at best) chapters.
> 
> [1] https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Willas_Tyrell#History  
> [2] https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Years_after_Aegon%27s_Conquest/Calculations_Ages_(Continued2)#Margaery_Tyrell  
> [3] https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Tourney_at_Lannisport  
> [4] https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Years_after_Aegon%27s_Conquest/Calculations_Ages#Domeric_Bolton. I put his birthday on 281, making him two years older than the twins, and two years younger than Theon (279).  
> [5] https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Years_after_Aegon%27s_Conquest/Calculations_Ages_(Continued3)#Ramsay_Bolton. I'm gonna go ahead and say he was born in the 272, which would make his age at the time of his canon debut (post-RW) 28, the age Iwan Rheon was when he started portraying Ramsay back in 2013.


	8. Winterfell I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I retconned the last line of the previous chapter:
> 
> "Their twins, Harald and Lyarra, were conceived on that day. When he took sight of them, Benjen insisted 'they only count as one'."
> 
> I wish I could tell you it was all planned beforehand, but I'm going to be honest with all of you: Kat Morgan royally fucked me when they asked _"Third child or third son? I thought it was child, but he changed it in his head to son, that means he’s already trying to prolong his stay."_.  
> As I answered, _"Okay, I'll be honest. While at first it was an oversight (son and child are the same word, "hijo", in Spanish), the more I thought on it the more sense it made. And now I'm flip flopping all across the board about it._  
>  I'll leave it at a "probably???""
> 
> Further explanation at the end of the chapter, so I won't spoil Benjen's family life as it develops.
> 
> This chapter consists of short snippets of life in Winterfell as the years go by. 
> 
> Bad news time: next chapter is, best case scenario, out by July. This is because I'm on my last month of the semester in Uni, and now juggling the exams, essays, and this fic becomes unsustainable if I wish to actually pass my courses. As well, I have to submit my thesis proposal next friday, among many other shit, so I won't be able to write on the fic as much as I'd like. By July I should be on vacations, and then I will be able to write at my heart's content, barring the ocasional world conquest with the bois.

**> 290.**

“You wished to see me, father?”

His father, not raising his eyes from the letter he was currently reading and lazily holding a cup of hippocras in his left hand, nodded curtly, still wearing the riding leathers he had on when he had arrived back to the Dreadfort earlier in the morning.

Silence hung on the dark and smoky solar, the dim torches held by skeletal human hands and the fireplace behind the Lord’s desk being the only sources of light in the room.

Domeric fidgeted slightly before his father, barely returned from the Greyjoy Rebellion after more than six moons away. “It’s good to see you,” he said tentatively.

“You are to be fostered in Winterfell,” his father stated, without giving any sign he had listened to Domeric’s words. He didn’t even look up to meet his eye.

Domeric didn’t flinch at his father’s bluntness. He would be lying if he said he’d never longed for some warmth, or perhaps a few kind or encouraging words, but he knew all too well that his father was a cold, stoic man. And he knew that he loved him in his own way, despite his inability to express it.

Or at least, that was what his mother said, and she had never lied to him.

And his mother had told him he was to be fostered in Barrowton.

With a frown, he spoke, “Mother told me—”

“Your mother is not up to date with the latest developments,” Lord Bolton interrupted evenly. “You will go to Winterfell, and will be raised alongside Lord Stark’s trueborn sons. Are we clear?”

“I…” Domeric stuttered, confused. “Ah…”

“Domeric.” His father crumpled the letter he had been reading into a ball and threw it offhandedly to the fireplace behind his chair. His father’s cold grey eyes met his own, younger and warmer, but still as pale nonetheless. “I need not stress the importance of this assignment. Do I?”

“No, father,” he said with a small sigh.

And it was true; Domeric was young, but well-versed on the history of the North. He was all too aware about the complicated and bloody history of war and antagonism that House Stark and House Bolton had shared for thousands of years.

It was to his great frustration that the wars never seemed to end, an endless cycle of violence fed by an insatiable desire of vengeance against the other. House Stark killed a member of House Bolton, so House Bolton flayed a member of House Stark, so House Stark killed a member of House Bolton, and so on and on and on, until the Wall fell and the world ceased to be.

Several times, as he read the histories maester Tybald had given him, Domeric wondered why were they unable to bury the hatchet, to put an end to all the bloodshed. His mother had laughed softly, and told him he would understand once he grew up. His father hadn’t even deigned fit to answer.

This was their chance to put an end to it all.

“Good,” Roose Bolton replied. “You’ll leave in a fortnight. Walton will escort you. Much is riding on this, Domeric. The future of our House might be decided by your actions.”

“I won’t let you down, father,” Domeric promised with a nod.

“No,” his father made a strange, awkward grimace, his mouth stilted in an unnatural, eldritch angle. Domeric knew him well enough to know it was meant to be a smile. “You won’t.”

 

* * *

 

Winterfell was a common location in the histories Domeric read, the backdrop against which conspiracies, oaths, sieges and murders happened. In his mind, Winterfell was never all too different from the Dreadfort—located in a dark, forested place, covered with white snow even in the warmest of summer days; imposing walls rising high, an ageless monstrosity of stone, worthy keep of the vicious warlords that had been the Kings of Winter of old.

The fortress that rose on the horizon was everything he had imagined and more, so much more; indeed, it made the Dreadfort, a majestic keep in its own right, feel almost inadequate in comparison. The two curtain walls of the castle were as tall as the Dreadfort’s highest tower, with a deep, wide moat filled with water between them making Winterfell near unassailable (which explained the castle’s sturdiness in his histories).

The ground upon which the castle was built was not levelled, a former brook now replaced with streets of cobblestones and lined with buildings of uneven heights, connected by covered walkways and bridges. Rising high above him was what Domeric presumed to be the Great Keep, a tall, round tower that dwarfed the whole castle under its height and scale. Standing next to it was an old, squat, crumbling and short keep—no, scratch that; it was _not_ short at all. It just _seemed_ short due to its unimpressive design and its proximity to the imposing great keep.

 _It is often the consolation of lesser men to pass judgment on things they don’t understand,_ his father always answered whenever Domeric asked him about the truth behind the claims his history books made about his ancestors; tales about wars, massacres, torture and bloodshed. _I will not have my son be ashamed of his House or the customs it has honoured for times immemorial_ , he sentenced.

And yet, his horse had barely stepped through the drawbridge on the east gate when he was overcome with a shame he had never felt before.

 _I shouldn’t be in here_.

He could feel the eyes of the populace glaring at him with distrust, if not outright contempt. He was a boy who had never wronged them in any single way, who had nothing in common with the men that had besieged, starved and razed Winterfell to the ground, Red Kings millennia since dead, but his surname and the red on pink colours he wore.

He knew that House Stark was not blameless in the wars of the past; maester Tybald had gone to great lengths to emphasise that no one was blameless in history, and House Stark was no exception. The direwolves had, after all, asserted their dominance of the North by subjugating every rival king in the land by right of arms, a hard and slow process that had been paid with the blood of millions across the centuries.

 _But they never flayed their enemies_ , Domeric brooded, keeping his gaze down, _nor wore their skins as cloaks._

Standing at the other end of the large courtyard, in front of the Great Keep’s heavy ironwood doors, stood the Stark family. Lord Eddard, his long, unremarkable face framed by a straight brown hair and beard, whose solemnity and stoicism made him appear larger than he was. Next to him was his wife, Lady Catelyn, a Tully of Riverrun by birth and a beautiful, high-cheeked woman with bright auburn hair. Barely standing still were two boys of the same age, one with an auburn mop and blue eyes and the other with dark brown curls and grey eyes, but both equally excitable and clad in white and grey; Domeric supposed they were Robert and Jon, Lord Eddard’s twin sons, but he’d be damned if he could tell which was which. Two younger children, one boy and one girl, stood besides them. The girl was auburn haired, and looked at him with her blue eyes wide open, full of curiosity, but the boy was dark of colouring, and his brown eyes had nothing but barely concealed distrust. He had no idea of who were they meant to be, nor the tall, thin man with blue eyes that stood by Lord Eddard’s other side. Standing somewhat aside from the Starks was a boy slightly older than Domeric himself, with messy brown hair, clear eyes and a sullen expression, a golden kraken emblazoned in his black doublet.

 _A Greyjoy…?_ Domeric frowned, but before he could dwell on that, his horse came to a halt in the middle of the courtyard. He dismounted with practised ease, and walked towards Lord Stark.

Once standing in front of Lord Stark, he dropped to a knee.

“Lord Stark,” he greeted in a deliberate imitation of his own father’s soft but firm voice.

“Lord Bolton,” Lord Stark nodded, his grey eyes unreadable, “I welcome you to Winterfell. I hope it will be of your liking.”

In response, Domeric voiced the two words that would have sent his father, the real Lord Bolton, in a fit of black rage, frothing at the mouth:

“I’m sorry.”

Immediately, it felt as if the whole courtyard had been deprived of air by so many people gasping, either surreptitiously (as Lady Stark did) or not (the mistrustful boy exclaimed a ‘what?!’ before being shushed by the tall, thin man). Even the excitable twins stopped fidgeting to look at him attentively.

Lord Stark blinked, confused. “Of what crimes? You are not to blame for the actions of your ancestors,” he stated kindly, but his voice was firm and strong, reaching every corner of the courtyard, as his eyes made a sweeping gaze. “It bodes poorly for us if we continue constrained by the chains of the past. The North remembers, aye, but we cannot move forward if our eyes remain forever fixated on the past.” To emphasise his point, he extended his right arm to Domeric to help him stand. With barely a moment of hesitation, Domeric accepted his hand and Lord Stark swiftly raised him from his knees. “Welcome to your new home, Domeric. Come, let me introduce you to my family.”

 

* * *

 

“Tell me, Robb, what do you know about House Tyrell?” his father asked, leaning back on his chair and crossing his arms. They were alone in the Lord’s solar, lord and heir.

Robb frowned. Maester Luwin had been teaching him and Jon about the Great Houses of Westeros, but they had been on the topic for barely over a month, and he had found out that, unlike Jon, he didn’t exactly have the best memory for things unrelated to warfare.

 _It’s not my fault they’re so boring_ , he rolled his eyes internally, but his father was looking at him expectantly, and he didn’t want to disappoint him. And so he answered carefully, mulling every one of his words before saying them.

“They’re the Lords of Highgarden. They rule over the Reach…” _What else, what else…_ “They… uh, claim descent from Garth the Gardener, but they never ruled as kings.” He racked his brain in search for some more information when, suddenly, everything fell into place with a snap. “Oh! They served as stewards to the Kings of the Reach, but when the last Gardener king and his heirs were killed on the Field of Fire, they surrendered Highgarden to Aegon Targaryen. He rewarded them by raising House Tyrell to Lords of Highgarden, and Lord Paramounts of the Reach!” he finished with pride and a wide grin.

“They are,” His father nodded, a satisfied look in his face. “I want you to write a letter to them.”

_Of cou — wait. What?! _

“You want me to do _what?_ ” Robb asked, confused.

“I want you to write a letter,” his father repeated patiently. “Addressed to Highgarden.”

“But… I’m just a child.” Even though it hurt his pride to say it out loud, it was true; he was barely halfway through his sixth year of life. The largest responsibility he had ever undertaken was _not_ messing the armory up when he stored back the wooden swords with which he trained, which was a responsibility he always fulfilled with the utmost zeal (even though Jon had seemed to make it his new life goal to frustrate him at every turn).

“And so is the person you’re writing to.”

Robb tilted his head in confusion. _Huh?_

“You aren’t writing to Lord Mace” – _Phew_ – “you are writing to his daughter, lady Margaery. She’s a year younger than you.”

“Ohhh!” he drawled, nodding in understanding. Of course, it all made sense now! … Wait, no, it didn’t. “Why?”

“I reached an agreement with Lady Olenna—”

“The Queen of Thorns?” Robb interrupted, unable to stifle his curiosity.

“Aye. Don’t call her that, though, it's disrespectful,” his father stated pointedly. “As I was saying, I reached an agreement with her about a rapprochement with the Reach.” At Robb’s blank stare, his father changed his wording. “A warming of relations, if you will.”

“And what does that have to do with me?”

“One of the things we agreed was that you and lady Margaery would keep correspondence with each other in order to strike a friendship and foster closer relations between Winterfell and Highgarden.”

 _Oh. Politics…_ Robb winced internally. Talking about politics was the surest way to get him to stop paying attention to his lessons, to maester Luwin’s great despair.

His father noticed his reaction.

“You don’t like politics?” His face was unchanged, but he sounded disappointed.

Robb nodded, red-faced and ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

“Easy, boy. There’s nothing to be sorry about. I’ve neglected to teach you politics so far, and even if I did, at six I doubt it would make much of a difference; you barely care about much else than swords and knights as it is.” _He’s got me there,_ Robb conceded. “We’ll start having weekly lessons about this when you’re seven. For now, though, I want you to take this quote in mind, so pay attention: ‘war is the continuation of politics by other means.’”

Robb frowned.

“What does that mean?”

“That’s what I want you to explain to me by your seventh name day. I’ll give you a hint, though: try switching the words’ places.”

_‘Politics is the continuation of war by other means’…?_

“They’re not so different as you might think, you know,” his father stated casually before Robb could dwell further on it. “And just as Alyn the Oakenfist broke the Plankytown to aid in Daeron’s conquest of Dorne, you will do your part in our increased cooperation with House Tyrell. Can I count on you, Robb?”

“Of course, father. I won’t let you down,” he vowed eagerly.

His father smiled warmly at him. “I know you won’t. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.” His words made Robb swell with pride.

Then he remembered he still had a letter to make and he had no idea how to go on about it.

“And… _what_ exactly should I write?” he deflated, awkwardly fidgeting with his doublet’s collar.

Robb wasn’t exactly sure what he expected for an answer. How _could_ he even start to forge a friendship with some girl he had never even _met?_ Should he write her some poetry? Talk with her about the gods, even though he followed the Old Gods and she most likely followed the Seven? Engage with her in a detailed and comprehensive description of Daeron I’s campaign against Dorne? Sure, that last one was kind of a long shot, but a boy could dream, right? He wasn’t exactly sure what he expected for an answer, but he hoped it were some hint about how to proceed. But no, his father did none of that. Instead, he did something truly, mind-shatteringly horrible in answer:

He shrugged.

“I don’t know. Introduce yourself? Ask her some questions about Highgarden? There’s no need to overthink it; for me, it’s politics. But for you it’s just making a new friend. I’m sure you’ll think of something. Bring me your letter by the end of the day, so I can give it to maester Luwin and send it.” His father smiled playfully at him. “Now scoot, go have fun before the sun comes down.”

 

* * *

 

_War is the continuation of politics by other means, and politics is the continuation of war by other means._

The phrase had stuck in Robb’s head like an arrow, and kept him from finishing the incomplete letter he had on his desk, instead twirling his quill between his fingers as he contemplated on it, the dim light of his candle filling his room with dancing shadows.

_War is politics by other means, and politics is war by other means._

It made some sense, he supposed. War always had (or should have) a purpose beyond the honours and glories it bestowed upon their heroes, and what was that purpose if not political? Thinking back on the rebellions against the Targaryens, the rebels had always had a certain goal that, to be fulfilled, required open warfare because they were unable to achieve them by peaceful means.

The Defiance of Duskendale was one such example. By taking Mad King Aerys captive, Lord Denys Darklyn hoped to gain further privileges and standing that the Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister, had refused him.

 _But all he got out of that was getting himself and his whole house slaughtered_ , Robb frowned. True, Lord Darklyn might have used warfare as an alternative to his political ambitions, but that didn’t mean he was wise about it. _Seriously, what did he expect would happen? That Aerys would just agree to his demands and not retaliate? Even_ I _know better than that..._

The Blackfyre rebellions, too, were backed by lords, the so-called almighty vassals such as Houses Yronwood, Peake, Reyne or Bracken, that were unhappy with the Targaryen monarchy, and expected further gains from Daemon than from Daeron; perhaps, even, becoming the new overlords of their regions. Political change, brought upon by force of arms.

 _And where warriors are unsuitable, politicians fight their own battles_ , Robb thought with some satisfaction at the progress he had made on his assignment. _Father wants me to be both,_ it dawned on him.

His train of thought was interrupted by his bedchamber’s doors opening abruptly. Robb jumped on his seat and turned to see his younger, mismatched twin staring at him questioningly.

“What are you writing?” Jon asked immediately, walking towards him and trying to get a look into Robb’s letter.

_Play it cool, Robb._

_'_ _Oh, I’m just doing special Heir-to-Winterfell work; nothing you should concern yourself with,_ little _brother. Go play with the other kids.’_

_Oooh, that’s perfect. Alright, now say it._

“N-NOTHING! GET OUT! LEAVE ME ALONE!” he cried instead with extreme vehemence, flapping his arms around like a madman.

_… Shit._

Robb tried to swat Jon away, but his twin evaded him, his attentions fixated on the parchment he had on his desk.

“Ooh, what are they? Letters to your girlfriend?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend!”

“Then who are you writing to?”

“Margaery Tyrell,” Robb informed him, then immediately regretted it. _Double shit._

“So you do have a girlfriend!” Jon grinned evilly.

Robb’s face went red. “I don’t!”

“You do!”

“No, I don’t, stupid!”

“Then why are you writing to lady Tyrell, eh?”

“Father told me to!”

At that, Jon frowned.

“Why, though?”

“Politics,” Robb summarised in a single word. _‘Heir-to-Winterfell work’._ He wasn’t sure he understood anything beyond that, too.

“Sounds boring,” his twin grimaced.

“Well, it could be worse,” he shrugged, thinking back on the reflection he had had before Jon had so rudely interrupted him.

Jon looked at him like he had grown a second head. “‘Could be worse’? But you hate politics! Gods know you’re driving poor maester Luwin up the walls...”

“I’m… not so sure anymore, to be honest. Father told me that war is the continuation of politics by other means. And the more I think on it, I think he’s right.”

“He’s always right,” Jon waved off as he threw himself into his bed. “Still, what about it?”

“It’s just that… Well, the way he says that, it makes it sound like they’re different sides of the same coin. Like one cannot be without the other, because they’re one and the same, I guess,” he paused, thinking. “Y’know, like war is politics fought in a battlefield, and politics are war fought with words,” Robb especulated. To be honest, he didn’t feel like he had yet struck gold on that matter, and even if he did, he still had to lime the rough edges.

“Hmm. Makes sense,” Jon said, staring at the roof.

“At least, thinking about it that way makes it more fun.”

“Maybe,” his twin agreed noncommittally.

Robb looked at him suspiciously.

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to finish your letter to your _girlfriend”_ – Jon put a teasing emphasis on the last word. Robb rolled his eyes in annoyance – “so we can go play with Theon and Dom. Theon says he wants to show us a game he used to play back at the Iron Islands, and he swears it’s going to be fun, and mother says it’s a good opportunity to become better friends with them, so why not?”

Robb shrugged. His father’s wards had, despite his initial doubts, proven to be friendly people and fun companions in the moons since they had arrived; he wouldn’t refuse to hanging out with them outside of their shared lessons. “Sure,” he said, turning towards the letter in his desk. “Just give me a minute.”

A beat.

“Or two.”

Another beat.

He scratched his chin with his quill.

“On second thought, I can finish the letter later. Let’s play.”

 

* * *

 

_Dear Margaery Tyrell,_

_My name is Robert Stark, but everyone calls me Robb. I live in Winterfell with my parents, my younger twin Jon, my little sisters Sansa and Arya, and my cousin Anton. I’m the eldest of them all, so one day I’m going to be the Lord of Winterfell, too. Winterfell is cold but very pretty. How is Highgarden?_

_I’m almost seven, and I would like to grow up to be a good lord one day. I like practising swordplay and riding, but ser Rodrik, my master-at-arms, says we’re too young to use steel swords yet. What do you like to do?_

_Yesterday, my father’s ward, Theon, showed us a game from the Iron Islands called the ‘finger dance’. It was fun, until my mother arrived and made us stop. She was very angry, but she’s usually kind. How is your family?_

_I hope to hear from you soon._

_Robb._

 

* * *

 

_Dear Robb Stark,_

_Thank you so much for your letter! I’ve never received a letter directed to me before, so this is very exciting and new to me. Winterfell is so far away, too._

_Highgarden is very big and beautiful. We always have bards and singers coming and going to Highgarden, and tourneys are very common, too. Do you have singers and tourneys in Winterfell, too?_

_I live with my three elder brothers, Willas, Garlan and Loras, and I have many many cousins and uncles, too. I like when Willas reads me stories. I also like playing hide and seek in the briar maze with Loras, and Garlan is fat but very nice to everyone. They usually do swordplay with each other. I would like to join them, but my mother says it’s not ladylike. I also like riding horses. Do you like riding, too?_

_I’ve never heard about that game. When I asked my grandmother about it, she said it was a silly thing Ironborn do when they drink too much. It sounds like fun. Why do grown-ups dislike fun?_

_How long do the letters take going from Winterfell to Highgarden? I wrote this letter on the third day of the sixth moon. When did you receive it?_

_Margaery Tyrell._

 

* * *

 

**> 292.**

Jon circled his opponent, shield raised and his sword poised to strike at any second, like a wolf stalking his prey. His prey, however, only looked back at him with defiance, holding his sword in both hands and his guard open like a fool’s, his sword resting lightly by his leg.

 _He’s got something in mind_ , Jon knew, as he eyed his brother warily. Robb, ever since he had begun his personal lessons with their father, was rapidly developing an ability to think outside the box. It was not like him to present an obvious vulnerability without having some sort of trap sprung beneath it.

The odd part, Jon reflected as he waited for his brother to make the first move, was that they actually shared the lessons; their father, as a second son himself, knew very well that it would be irresponsible to only teach rulership to his heir when he might die in an untimely manner without ever reaching the lordship, such as uncle Brandon had. Despite that, Robb was somehow getting far more out from the lessons than Jon, filled with an ambition and willingness to experiment that he simply lacked.

Seeing that Robb wasn’t going to take the offensive, Jon made a tentative strike. Robb immediately parried Jon’s lunge, and with a quick twist, he made a strong riposte that Jon only barely managed to block with his shield.

Taking advantage of Robb’s vulnerability, Jon quickly remised, swinging his sword against his twin’s legs, but he sidestepped backwards, suddenly out of Jon’s range, his strike missing by mere inches.

“ROBB!” ser Rodrik barked, interrupting their sparring. “Where is your shield?”

“I… It slows me down, ser,” Robb replied, scratching the back of his neck. “With both hands I can give my swing more strength.”

“Aye, but it leaves you twice as vulnerable,” ser Rodrik’s whiskers shook with each word that left his mouth. “We’ll practice two-handed swordplay when you’re older. For now, I want you to use sword and shield. Go get yours.”

“Can’t we practice the techniques Karlon has been teaching father?” Robb asked.

Ser Rodrik’s mouth turned into a fine line, before replying curtly. “When you’re older. Go get your shield.”

Robb frowned, but didn’t argue any further.

Karlon was a crannogman who had suddenly turned up one day a year ago, and promised to teach them new unorthodox ways of fighting, such as dual wielding a sword and a knife, and the more lithe, swift-footed moves of the crannogmen.

However, ser Rodrik hadn’t taken well this perceived usurpation of his duties as master-at-arms, and had redoubled on his trusted sword-and-shield fighting. So far, the only ones who Karlon had had the opportunity to fully teach to had been their father and uncle Benjen, who used the courtyard whenever their children were busy in maester Luwin’s lessons.

Unfortunately for the old maester, the boys more often than not stopped paying him any attention whatsoever the moment the singing of steel filled the courtyard, instead running for the windows to steal a peek at the complex and acrobatic swordplay their father and uncle were attempting to master, all the while trying to carve every single movement into their mind to then try out themselves.

The results were less than stellar, and all they’d got to show for it were more bruises than they were proud of.

“What are you waiting for?” Jon yawned to his still frowning and very much unshielded twin, leaning on his wooden sword with a teasing smile on his face. “A written invitation by your _girlfriend?”_

Robb rolled his eyes. “For the last time, Lady Margaery is _not_ my girlfriend.”

“Oh really? Then what is she?”

“She’s just a friend.”

A pause. Further down the courtyard, Domeric and Theon fought fiercely with each other while ser Rodrik observed.

“... Who is a girl.”

An even longer pause. Domeric blocked Theon’s swing with his wooden shield, but was unable to follow up on it.

“... With whom we write to each other frequently.”

Jon raised his eyebrows, utterly unimpressed.

“... I’m not really helping my case, am I?” Robb eventually sighed, facepalming.

“Just go get your shield already, Florian. I’m itching to kick your ass.”

“You’d wish, _little_ brother,” Robb grinned, then turned towards the equipment. “Now, where did I leave my shield?”

Without anything else to do but wait, Jon only stared lackadaisical as his twin rummaged through the available equipment set aside, searching for the shield he had proudly painted himself. However, he would have no such luck, for Jon had hid it in his own empty tomb in the crypts last night when his brother was too busy writing to his girlfriend instead of playing with him as he always did.

No, he wasn’t jealous. You’re jealous!

“Hmmm, uncle Benjen’s shield will do,” Robb muttered under his breath after a moment.

“Stop right there, criminal scum!" someone barked behind Robb with as much authority as a boy of seven could manage, making him jump in surprise. "Nobody breaks the law on my watch!”

Jon blinked at the sight. His cousin Anton was clad in a mishmash of oversized and uneven plate armour from head to toe, taken straight out of the armoury. Not even the slightest hint of skin was visible, all the pieces overlapping each other. How the boy was even able to withstand its weight was beyond Jon’s comprehension.

“Err…” Robb failed to reply, his eyes wide open in confusion like a deer caught by a hunter, his uncle’s shield in his hands.

“I’m confiscating your stolen goods, now pay your fine or it’s off to jail!” the boy continued, extending his hand to receive his father’s shield.

The heir to Winterfell stared at the seventh-in-line, eyebrows raised and his lips in a thin line. “What.”

Jon couldn’t resist. “Theon, Dom! Take a look at this!” he called out, laughing.

Distracted by Jon’s calling, Domeric turned his head and lowered his shield, just in time to get his arm wacked by Theon’s wooden sword. The Bolton lordling cursed, then looked curiously at the iron-clad child. “Anton, what are you doing?” he asked, rubbing his sore arm.

“Shut it, flayer!” the boy snapped with sudden hostility. Domeric scowled, and Jon felt his own blood warm in anger at the insult made at his friend. “I know nothing of this so-called ‘Anton’!”

“Anton…” Robb growled in warning. His twin was just as pissed as he was.

“I am not Anton! I… am… Iron-man!” he proclaimed grandly and with a flourish.

The twins shared a look.

Jon whacked his cousin’s head with the flat of his wooden blade, leaving his great helm ringing loudly.

“... Ouch.”

“Anton!” ser Rodrik shouted, “Stop messing around with the plate armours! They’re not toys for you to play with!”

As Anton’s attention was grabbed by ser Rodrik’s stern scolding, Domeric muttered “He dislikes me still.”

“Bah, don’t mind him; he dislikes everything,” Robb waved off. Then, frowning, he added, “except Sansa, for some reason.”

“And uncle Benjen,” Jon added. “He follows him around like a puppy.”

“Gods, that’s one ugly puppy,” Theon made a grimace, earning a laugh from his companions. _I’d like a puppy,_ Jon entertained the thought briefly.

“He called me ‘flayer’,” Domeric scowled, clearly upset.

“He always took Old Nan’s wild stories too close to his heart for his own good. Next thing we know, he’ll be telling us the White Walkers are real,” Robb rolled his eyes, and his companions chuckled. “You’d think that after two years with you here he’d change his tune.”

Domeric Bolton had been a peculiar addition to the Stark household. The offspring of a House with a traditionally ‘difficult’ relationship with theirs, at first Jon doubted he would find himself a good fit in Winterfell. However, the boy had quickly endeared himself to the rest of the household with his quiet, polite and friendly personality. Along with Theon Greyjoy, who had arrived barely a few moons before him, they had formed a closely-knit group with the twins, all four of them becoming permanent companions in their lessons, sparring, and most importantly, fun.

Sansa delighted on having Domeric read to her the stories of kings, princesses and valiant knights with his soft and smooth voice. Arya thought of him as ‘ _almost as good as Jon’_ (which the black-haired boy made sure to rub in Bolton’s face whenever possible) and enjoyed his complicity to her mischiefs, and little Bran and cousins Harry and Lya had all once thought that Domeric was their kin before being explained otherwise. Even baby Maisie, barely over a moon old, laughed and gurgled in presence of the heir of the Dreadfort.

But not Anton. The boy only shot mean, hateful stares at the Bolton lordling, clearly unhappy with his presence; or, indeed, with his mere existence.

“I mean, to be fair with the kid, your House _did_ flay people,” Theon pointed out. _Really, Theon?_ Jon facepalmed internally. They all glared at the Greyjoy, unamused. “... What?” he exclaimed, instantly on the defensive. “They have a flayed man in their banner!”

“And your House could actually rebel against their lieges without being a fucking disgrace at it. Your point being?” Domeric snapped dryly.

Theon’s ears turned red as the twins laughed, but instead of jumping in a rage at the insult as he used to do back when he had just arrived, he crossed his arms, looked down and kicked a pebble.

“Yeah, fair enough, I guess…” he grumbled, then looked up at Domeric, scratching the patchy, thin fuzz that was starting to appear in his cheeks, doubt in his clear eyes. “Still… Is it true? Y’know, the collections of skins and all that?”

Domeric paused for a moment, his eerily pale grey eyes shrouded with contemplation. Jon couldn’t help but shift awkwardly where he stood, unsure of whether he wanted an answer. Robb, too, looked equally uncomfortable.

“To be perfectly honest,” Domeric finally stated, finality in his voice, “I don’t know, and I don’t _want_ to know. Now, can we get back to the sparring, please?”

 

* * *

 

_Dear Robb,_

_Why didn’t you tell me before that ‘Domeric’ was Lord Bolton’s heir? I always thought he was one of your Mormont cousins or a baseborn kinsman. Aren’t House Stark and House Bolton supposed to be ancestral rivals, like the Blackwood and the Brackens in the Riverlands? Why would the heir to the Dreadfort be fostered at Winterfell if that were true?_

_I might be mistaken. I only have Willas’ old books to guide me on that, as maester Lomys refuses to give me more books about the North, and instead tries to have me learn more about the other, more ‘important’_ _(his words, not mine)_ _kingdoms. I asked my grandmother for help, but she agreed with Lomys._

_Perhaps I have been focusing too much on the North, but it’s because it’s so interesting! The other kingdoms are more or less the same as Highgarden, but the North is like a completely different realm altogether, like Old Valyria or Old Ghis._

_My grandmother even said I was distracting myself too much by writing to you and that I should stop for a while! I was angry with her, because it was her idea on the first place! Fortunately, Garlan is on my side and will send the letters to Winterfell for me and tell the maester that he’s making inquiries about the ironwood on father’s behalf. Maester Lomys is very absent-minded, so I don’t think he’s going to question it._

_I don’t like lying to my grandmother, but I also don’t want to stop talking with you. You’re my friend._

_Be a dear and kick Theon in the shins for me._

_Margaery._

_PS: My brothers call me Maggie; you can too, if you want._

 

* * *

 

_Dear Maggie,_

_It was true; but that was centuries ago, and things have changed since then. Domeric is one of my best friends, and my father keeps constant correspondence with Lord Bolton. My cousin Anton is the only one in Winterfell who still harbours dislike for the Boltons. It’s very frustrating. _

_My sister Sansa is the complete opposite of you; she dreams of going south and visit the heartlands of chivalry. My aunt Dacey is trying her best to convince her real life it’s not the same as in her songs, but her results have been lukewarm at best. I blame Domeric,  for indulging Sansa so much. She always asks him to read her all the stories of brave knights and fair ladies over and over again, and he’s unable to say no to her._

_That’s strange. Why would your grandmother suggest that? Grown-ups are so confusing at times. Every time I think I have them figured out, they go and do something completely unexpected. At times I get the feeling that even they don’t really know what they’re doing._

_I always knew I liked Garlan. ‘The Gallant’, indeed. I would love to meet him, too. Maybe spar with him._

_I tried doing my lady’s bidding earlier today at the courtyard using my wooden sword, but I missed and hit Theon in the balls. He’s still mad at me._

_Robb._

_PS: Will do._

 

* * *

 

**> 294.**

Someone was poking his cheek.

“Jon.”

_Hnnngh…_

“Jon.”

_Wanna sleep…_

“Jon.”

_Sleepy sleepy sleepy._

“Jon.”

_No, no Jon here. Come back later._

“Jon.”

_I swear to every god there is, Robb, if this is about your imaginary girlfriend I will throw you out of the window._

“Jon.”

_..._

“Jon!”

_**“WHAT?!"** _

“Are you awake?” To his surprise, he just realised that wasn’t Robb’s voice.

“Arya…?” Jon immediately sat up on his bed, blinking groggily and disoriented, his annoyance quickly vanishing and biting back his snarky remark.

“I had a nightmare,” her voice was so soft and sheepish for a moment he thought perhaps it was timid cousin Lya instead of his little sister, but Lya wouldn’t search  _him_ out in the middle of the night when she had a nightmare.

“Oh.”

“Can I sleep with you?”

“Uhh, sure,” Jon replied, swiftly scooting over to the other end of his bed and giving enough space for Arya to fit in. The five-year-old near jumped onto the bed, quickly nesting within the covers and snuggling with Jon. “You’re so cold,” he noted, her bare feet chilly against his, as he ruffled her messy mousy hair.

“I… err… I got lost on my way here,” she replied lamely. “I forgot that they moved you out of the nursery when Rickon was born.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “How long did it take you to find the bedchamber?”

There was a long pause.

“... A while,” Arya sentenced after a full minute, unwilling to elaborate any further and clearly embarrassed. Jon chuckled softly.

They laid in silence for a moment, Robb’s soft snoring in the bed on the other extreme of the bedchamber being the only noise in the darkness of night. _How come I didn’t wake him up with my shout?_ Jon briefly wondered, before shaking the thought off his head. _I can prank Robb later, Arya needs me now._

“Do you... want to tell me about it?” Jon eventually asked. He needn’t specify what he was asking about. After all, it was the reason Arya was there.

His sister shuffled in bed, very much uncomfortable at the thought.

“If… If that’s alright with you, of course,” he swiftly added.

A long, pregnant silence followed, before Arya reluctantly began speaking.

“I… I dreamt I was lost in a field of snow…” she shivered. “Snow, reaching as far as I could see. I was so, so cold… And it was so dark, too...”

“Was there anyone else with you?”

“No,” his sister shook her head. “It was just me. There was a blizzard… And then they began to appear.”

 _“They?”_ Jon frowned. “You mean the White Walkers? I had my own share of nightmares about them when Old Nan first told us that story,” he quickly tried to reassure her, but his sister seemed unconvinced.

“I don’t know... I don’t think so,” Arya furrowed her brow, pensive. “They were like the statues from the crypts, but made of ice. And they just kept appearing, until I was surrounded…” her voice was starting to break. “I… I couldn’t see their faces. They were foggy… But I could recognise who they were…”

He didn’t really want to make the question, but what else could he do?

“... _Who_ were they?” he reluctantly asked.

“ _Everyone,”_ Arya blurted out. “Everyone,” she repeated, breathing heavily. “Their faces were blurry, but I  _knew_ who they were.” After a pause, she continued, struggling over every word that came out of her mouth as if they physically pained her to formulate them. “I only saw one face clearly... And… and it was yours,” and the dam broke down.

“You had a blue rose growing out of your chest,” Arya blubbed between violent sobs as he hugged her tightly without saying a word, instead listening intently to his little sister’s words, “but when I touched it, it… shriveled into a black rock and... ignited and covered you in… in flames. And the others started to burn, too… and melt… And in the end, you too melted into the snow alongside them… and left me alone… And then I woke up...” she trailed off, weeping.

“Shhh, it was just a nightmare,” he tried to soothe her.

“It felt so real, too…” she sobbed, sending a pang of hurt into his heart.

“It wasn’t,” he replied. “We’re all fine.”

“I don’t want it to come true.”

“It won’t.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Because I won’t let it come true. I promise.”

“Can I?” she asked softly. Jon nodded, and his little sister’s hand tentatively came to rest upon his chest, her fingers shivering.

“See? I’m not going to burst into flames any time soon,” Jon smiled at her.

No further words were spoken, both melting into each other’s embrace. Arya sobbed into his chest while he ran his hand up and down her spine, rubbing her back in comfort. Slowly, her weeping subsided gradually, just as it always did when she cried as a baby and only he would be able to calm her down.

They had lain in a comfortable, warm silence for minutes, Robb’s snoring the only noise – _Seriously, h_ _ow is he still asleep?!_ Jon marvelled – when Arya spoke again.

“Jon?”

His shirt was wet with her tears, but he minded none. “Yes?”

“If you tell anyone about this I will throw you out of the window,” she said, her voice just as soft as before.

Jon chuckled despite himself. There was something amusing about your little sister promising to defenestrate and kill you right after crying in your arms for a nightmare she had in which you died, all without even changing her tone in the slightest. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

“I’m serious!” she suddenly barked, staring daggers at him.

 _Now that’s more like the Arya I know._ “And so am I.”

Silence.

“Jon?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“Always, little sister,” he kissed her forehead and ruffled her hair, and she only offered a token resistance. Both children soon drifted off to sleep, lost to each other’s comforting warmth.

 

* * *

 

_Dear Maggie,_

_I’m so glad for your brother! Unfortunately, the journey to Highgarden is too long and the political situation up North is delicate, so we won’t be able to attend to the wedding. Please tell ser Willas we send him our best regards and wish him a happy marriage, and that I owe him a wedding gift. _

_Things are starting to get a bit weird here in Winterfell, too. I don’t know why, but suddenly many of the young sons of the North have been steadily arriving to be fostered at Winterfell. Father is even starting to hire stonemasons and builders to restore the old First Keep just to make space for everyone!_

_So far we’ve got Torrhen and Alys Karstark, twins Ethan and Talia Forrester (I heard their elder sister, Mira, was sent to Highgarden), “Small” Jon Umber, Daryn Hornwood, Steffon Dustin… We’ve even got a Frey, Olyvar, although (fortunately for him) he doesn’t quite look like one. I don’t know why, though. It’s odd. It’s not like there’s going to be a wedding any time soon; and if there is, no one has told me!_

_The timing is odd, too, because just a few weeks ago Forresters and Whitehills were on the verge of war. Something about an illicit affair between their children Asher (F.) and Gwyn (W.), I think? In the end, though, Lord Forrester reluctantly exiled Asher to Essos to avoid bloodshed. It brought dishonour to his House, but he did what was right, I believe. He saved many innocent lives. Dom said his father was enormously displeased with Lord Whitehill’s ‘irrational’ behaviour, and I know my father shares that thought._

_I hope you have fun on Willas’ wedding!_

_Robb._

 

* * *

 

_Dear Robb,_

_You’ve made a fair maiden very, very unhappy. I counted on you, and you failed me. You've stood me up. That’s so unchivalrous of you. For shame._

_I jest, of course, but I hoped Willas’ wedding would be the opportunity for us to finally meet each other in person. Sadly, it was not to be. There will be another time. Maybe when you come of age you could persuade your Lord father to allow you to travel to Highgarden? After all, it is nothing less than proper that the future Lord of Winterfell knows the lands of his peers. Why, you could take a tour across the courts of the Great Lords of Westeros. I would be glad to be your guide... Assuming my lord father agrees with that, of course._

_Yes, indeed! Mira Forrester arrived to Highgarden shortly before your letter did. She is to be one of my handmaidens. She’s a very likeable girl, although a bit reserved and straightforward. Is that how most northern women are? What a refreshing change of pace!_

_It would seem that your lord father wishes to strengthen the bonds between the different heirs of the North to avoid further strife such as the one between the Forresters and the Whitehills. At least, that’s the impression I’ve got from what you’ve told me. After all, he did the same by fostering the heir to the Dreadfort in Winterfell, did he not? He ensured a lifelong friendship between the Lord Paramount of the North and his strongest vassal._

_The addition of a Frey is peculiar. Perhaps your lord father has some southron ambitions, too? My grandmother insists your lord father is smarter than people give him credit for, and for what I’ve been told, I’m very much tempted to agree (and I’m not just saying that just because he’s your father). After all, the Freys, for good or ill, control the entrance to the better half of the Riverlands. Better to stay on their good graces if you don't want to be extorted, although knowing Lord Walder it won't make a difference._

_Speaking of my grandmother, now once again she’s encouraging me to write to you. Who can understand that woman? She would be horrified, though, if she saw how candid I’m with you. She’s always insisted that a lady’s sword and shield are her courtesies, and she’s right, of course, but I have no need for such with you._

_How can I have fun, if you won’t be there? Oh, poor me! Rest assured, I will give Willas and Jeyne your regards._

_Maggie._

_PS: I get the feeling that the Karstark girl is there to try and charm you into a betrothal. Be careful with her._

 

* * *

 

**> 295.**

Benjen found himself wishing for the child to be another girl, but this time he had no such luck. As soon as maester Luwin proclaimed their child to be a healthy, strong boy, both parents were gripped by a deep, foreboding sadness, for they both knew all too well what it meant.

He had named the boy Osric after Osric Stark, the notorious Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch whose leadership began when he was only ten and finished sixty years later; all in all, a rather unsubtle hint of what he intended to do.

And yet he had dallied. He had held his newborn son in his arms as much as he could, maybe even more than Dacey herself. He had taught Anton swordplay, every single dirty little trick he could think of, hoping he never would be in the need to use them. He had played hide and seek in the Godswood with Harry and Lya, and read bedtales to Maisie.

So it had been, for over three months. Three months he had been too weak-willed to go through with his penance, to leave behind the family he had learned to love with all his being.

He had been right all those years ago in Lannisport. In the end, it didn’t make a difference. And yet, it had made all of the difference during the years he spent in Winterfell.

 _But all good things must come to an end_ , Benjen thought sadly as he secured the last strap of his horse’s equipment.

“Leaving in the middle of the night?”

He sighed in shame, turning towards the door of the stables, where, clad in furs, stood Dacey Mormont, his wife.

“I…” he began.

“I know. You don’t think you would be able to leave if our children were here, do you?” she smiled, her eyes full of sadness.

Benjen chuckled without a shred of joy.

“You know me so well. I went to their quarters in the nursery to see them one last… I left them a letter, there…” he paused, his lower lip trembling and a tight knot in his throat. _Gods, I can’t even finish my sentences…_ “I can barely bring myself to be here, truth be told. I wish I could stay… But…”

“Your choices are your own. If you feel that the Wall is the only way to atone for your siblings’ lives, I cannot stop you, no matter how much I want,” a tear rolled down Dacey’s cheek.  _Even now, she still doesn't know the full story, only lies and half-truths. I will not endanger Jon._

“It’s not about what I _want_ , anymore. But it’s what I _must_ do,” he stated. “If it were for wants, I would stay... but I cannot. My punishment is due.” A fond but sorrowful smile formed in his lips as he gazed at her lovingly. “The gods know I’ve been avoiding it long enough as it is.”

“They won’t hold it against you. They wouldn’t, either.”

“I’m afraid we’ll never know the paths we didn’t choose.”

“Do you regret anything?” Dacey asked instead, closing the distance between them.

“You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me, Dacey. You and Anton, and Harry and Lya and Maisie and baby Osric,” he answered with absolute certainty. “My only regret is that I took so long to realise it. If only—” Dacey’s finger came to rest on Benjen’s lips, silencing him.

“Shhh... It doesn’t matter now. The past five years have been the best time of my life,” she said sincerely, hugging him tightly. Benjen gulped the knot in his throat as he reciprocated.

“In another life, perhaps we could have grown old with each other…” he mused, crushed by the sadness he felt.

“It would have been so sweet, too,” Dacey replied, smiling sadly at him. “You will always have a home in Winterfell to come back to.”

“I would be a deserter. My life would be forfeit.”

“Do you think so little of your brother that you doubt he would pardon you?”

Benjen simply gave a sad smile in response. _Would he? He was always such a stickler to the rules..._

He turned towards his horse. Everything was already packed, the last strap secured before Dacey had turned up.

It was time to leave.

“A kiss to remember you by?” Benjen asked, barely keeping himself together.

They kissed softly, their lips coming together one last time in a tender embrace, filled with unspoken intent and unfulfilled wishes. It ended all too soon, both of them choking with grief.

“My love for you will be the only thing keeping me warm for the rest of my days,” Benjen let out, as he mounted his horse.

Dacey smiled one last time, tears running down her face. “I know. I love you too.”

He spurred his horse onwards at a soft canter. He knew his departure was long overdue. If he'd had it his way, he would have left barely a moon after Ned’s return from the war against the Targaryens, but his brother had had different things on his mind.

And so, he had married a wonderful woman he didn’t deserve. Fathered children who showered him in an affection he wasn’t worthy to receive. His life had been so, so much more than he had ever imagined, and despite his reluctance, he had been as happy as he had ever been since the moment he finally embraced them.

_But the payment comes due._

He had wished to leave Winterfell for over a decade now. To leave his home behind and ride for the Wall, first for adventure and then for penance. He could barely remember the time he wished for the glory and adventure of the Black. This was not about him. It wasn’t a selfish decision by a man whose thirst for adventure overweighed his responsibilities to his kin, Benjen believed, but the punishment due to a man whose foolishness and cowardice had doomed thousands of lives all those years ago.

How many lives, how many dreams faded away because a single boy was unable to tell his father the truth? No matter how many times Ned tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault, repenting from the harsh words he had directed at him when he had returned from the war, Benjen could never wash their blood from his hands.

How could he? The remorse and shame gnawed at his insides every time he saw Jon, Lyanna’s only living vestige, or Arya, her aunt’s vivid portrait. Every time Arya scolded Bran and called him stupid, Benjen felt his heart writhe in grief and guilt. Every time Brandon's shadow loomed over Ned and him, or their father's stern face looked at them without sight, his eyes made of cold granite.

But now, as his horse neared Winterfell’s gates, he felt like he would crumble in any second, overcome with grief and emotion. Every fiber of his being spurred him backwards, to return to Dacey’s sweet embrace, but he knew he had no choice. It was the only way he could atone for his crimes. For the family whose lives he had cut short.

 _Don’t look back,_ he steeled himself. _If you look back, you won’t be able to leave._

“Father?”

_No._

_Oh Gods no._

“Anton,” he heard his wife’s voice breaking, “get back to your bed.”

“Where is father going?”

_Don’t look back._

“Father?”

“Get back to your bed, now,” Dacey’s ordered, almost with desperation.

_Don’t look back._

Biting his lip, Benjen dug his heels on his horse’s flanks, making it pick up the pace.

“Father!” He hadn’t seen it, but he knew his boy had made a run for it behind him, breaking free of his mother’s hold.

“Anton!” Dacey shouted.

_Don’t look back!_

Bitter tears and fresh blood mixed their taste in his mouth as his horse galloped out of Winterfell’s gates and into the night, never to turn back.

“Father!” Anton wailed one last time before he, too, disappeared into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > My original idea was to give Benjen three kids and that was that. Anton would have his own plotline, because he would be old enough for that (12-13), while Lyarra and Osric (the youngest) would be side-characters to their cousin's plotlines, more or less the same as Rickon in canon.  
> However, then I decided to add further children, including a pair of twins, Harald and Maisie (292), between Lyarra (290) and Osric (295). Problem was, then Winterfell was cluttered with far-too-young-to-be-of-relevance Starks. So I moved Harald up to be Lyarra's twin and making him more wieldy.
> 
> > Roose Bolton is a cold, closed man. Despite my wishes to explore more of him in his interaction with Domeric, it felt out of character for him to explain himself in a "normal situation" (the ones in ADWD in which he talks about Domeric with Theon/Reek is the closest the man gets to grief; it's the exception, not the rule). I get the impression, too, that he is a man who gives orders and never says why (unlike Ned), so that forces the conversation to be short and curt.  
> Compare and contrast the scenes between the Bolton Lord and his heir and the Stark Lord and his heir.
> 
> > When Domeric arrives, Dacey is with Arya in the nursery, and she's about a month or two further into her own pregnancy than Cat, who is, at most, in her second month of Bran. This, of course, goes beyond Domeric's perception, and is therefore not mentioned.
> 
> > Does raven-mail have a set length to its messages? One would suppose it's relatively short, but longer messages have been sent in canon, so I guess that average length letters are fair game. And if not, I feel bad for the poor bastard who has to go up and down between Winterfell and Highgarden delivering letters.
> 
> > Margaery. Is she flirting? Is she just being friendly? Is it all a facade, manipulating Robb with ulterior purposes unknown to Winterfell, or is she actually being true and honest in her words? You'll have to wait and see, but I believe her letters have enough hints for you to make your own judgment. And even then, the truth might be different.
> 
> > Robb is starting to develop a new flexibility and cunning. He's A) misleading his foe, B) going against orders and orthodoxy, and C) succeeding at it. You could argue that's true for his canon self as well, considering the battle of the Green Fork/the Whispering Wood, but here we see it applied to common swordplay, instead of full-blown warfare.
> 
> > According to AWOIAF [1], "A man’s daughter inherits before her father’s brother." So, Sansa and Arya go before Benjen and his own offspring in Winterfell's line of succession. In theory.
> 
> > While canon places him at 295 [2], in this fic's timeline, Rickon was born in 294. He's still useless, though.
> 
> > Willas is getting married! In canon, he's still a bachelor, while his younger brother, Garlan, is already married. I presume that's because Willas is crippled and therefore loses some of the luster he has as a Tyrell bachelor. However, in this continuity he isn't crippled, so Willas squired for Lord Mathis Rowan, was knighted by him upon reaching adulthood (18; 294), and married his only daughter, Jeyne, a highborn lady fit for the heir to Highgarden. Her name is unknown in canon [3], so I just used the CK2 fanon for her name and age (278). 
> 
> > Give me your opinions on the multi-POV format I've been using both here and on chapter 7. While I understand it's convenience, I don't really fancy titling each single POV in the chapter by their names as I jump between them, instead preferring to jump straight into it and mentioning as soon as possible _who's_ the narrator.  
> Of course, the multiPOV chapters are the exception, not the rule, and will only be used for battles and/or time-skip heavy chapters.
> 
> > All I'll say about Benjen's decision is that depression fucking sucks. Further explanations have already been done. If you've been paying attention, you can see _why_ he's doing this. I won't defend his decisions, because depression, survivor's guilt and the reasoning he follows in such a state of mind can't be boiled down to "right" or "wrong". 
> 
> > So... Does anyone want to be a beta-reader/minor editor for this fic? So far my brother has been doing that job, but he's a busy guy and as much of a spanish-speaker as I am, so there's only so much he can do when it comes to vocabulary and prose. Still, there won't be any new material until July, so there's not much to do.
> 
> [1] https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Customs#Inheritance  
> [2] https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Years_after_Aegon%27s_Conquest/Calculations_Ages_(Continued3)#Rickon_Stark  
> [3] https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Mathis_Rowan#Family


	9. Winterfell II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promises made, promises kept. Here I am, ready to continue this fic.  
> It took way longer that I thought it would, because while the latter half of the chapter flowed easily when writing, the first half didn't.  
> Like really, holy fuck was this chapter delayed.  
> Also, I've been binge-reading Spidey fics and world-conquering with the bois on HOI4 and Civ6, and It's hard to focus when you're hyping on something else tbh
> 
> First things first, a warning:  
>  **The mood-whiplash between scenes is _real_ in this chapter.** There's angst, followed by fluff, then angst, then comedy, and so on. This is, unfortunately, the logical consequence of the snippet-like format this chapter and the previous one have. Some people are having a good time. Others, not so much. 
> 
> Second:  
> I'll be honest. I've more or less given up on trying to use GRRM's archaic vocabulary (ex. "bedchamber" instead of "room") or specific inflections in the dialogues (e.g. the complete non-existence of "mum" or "dad", "okay", and so on). Once again, this is because I'm a Spaniard and I've never read ASOIAF in English.  
> Truth be told, I don't quite care if they sound like ASOIAF characters; as long as they sound like _real people_ when they talk, I'm okay with it. This, however, only applies to casual, friendly and intimate situations. Y'know, for friends and family during their normal lives (or as normal as they get in Westeros).  
> For politicking and the like, or when I feel it applies best, though, vocabulary remains unchanged. Depends on the vibe I wish to give that scene.  
> It's just a heads-up, because of the aforementioned mood whiplash. 
> 
> And last but not least: there is a YouTube link for music, mostly as as an experiment; I'm trying to play up with the format to include music during certain scenes to increase their punch or the "immersion" they require to work best. Please give me your thoughts down below.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it.

He never came back.

It didn’t matter how much he wished he did.

How he had begged the Gods, Old and New, to bring his father back.

They had been deaf to his pleas, and silent in their answers, if they had ever bothered to give him one.

And now, lingering by his window, Anton felt all the weight of the world crushing him, pinning him down, slowly squeezing what little life was left in him, a pale, scruffy-looking ten-year-old, red-rimmed eyes and a gaunt countenance.

There was a knock on his door.

“Anton?” Sansa’s voice came from the other side of his wooden door, heavily barred with his room’s furniture.

He blinked tiredly. It was the sixth time in the day she had tried to talk to him. The thought of his little cousin caring for his welfare warmed his heart, but it was unable to withstand the cold emptiness his father’s departure had left behind for more than a handful of seconds.

“Go away,” he rasped out, his voice coarse and rough. _You’re not the one I want to see._

Sansa, for the sixth time in the day, didn’t get the raven.

“You need to eat,” she insisted.

Anton sighed heavily. He glanced at the empty cup of water that lied on the cold stone floor by his bare feet. He didn’t even have any thirst at all.

“Go. Away,” he punctuated for emphasis, his gaze fixated on the Hunter’s Gate.

Waiting.

Daring to hope.

Being disappointed once again.

All the while, a single word repeating itself over and over inside his head.

_Why?_

_Why did he abandon us?_

_Why did he abandon me?_

_Why?_

The letter his father had left by the nursery, supposedly explaining his departure to his children, had been nothing but a steaming pile of bullshit, the parchment’s tattered remains littering his room’s floor.

_‘By the time you read this, I will be long gone. I have left Winterfell to join the Night’s Watch, as I was always meant to do. As I’ve always known to be my fate.’_

And yet, you took a wife and fathered children, only to leave them behind.

_‘I’m sorry there wasn’t any other way.’_

Because you neglected to try to find it.

_‘The Night’s Watch is an honourable calling, and one I must heed.’_

Lies. The Night’s Watch was a penal colony, a den of thieves and rapists sent to the far ends of the earth to die, isolated from society. There was no honour to be had at the Wall.

_‘I wish I could explain you the full reasons behind my decision, face to face, eye to eye. But I’m not strong enough. I love you too much to endure your pain.’_

So much, you spurred your horse onwards instead of turning back to your weeping child.

_‘One day, I will come back and set things straight.’_

And you shall be beheaded as a deserter and a traitor.

_‘Until then, please behave properly. I know your mother will take good care of you.’_

A mother he hadn’t seen since that night, so loving was she that she had pointedly neglected him.

_‘I love you so much.’_

I hate you so much.

Brief and vague, it explained nothing and helped less to make Anton feel better about it all.

Maybe Harry and Lya were young enough to swallow such bullshit without questioning it. They were too little to truly know what was going around them, Anton supposed; Maisie, more so. And Osric? Who the fuck was he? A babe barely a moon old.

But he wasn’t.

They had always told him he was a very attentive kid.

And that was how he knew his father was lying.

He hadn’t left following an honourable call of duty.

He had abandoned them.

And he had no real reason to do so.

A new knock on his door.

“Anton?” Sansa. For the seventh time. “Please talk to me.”

Her voice quivered, grief and pain barely controlled.

Any other day, Anton would be _livid_ at the thought of sweet Sansa being unhappy.

Now, he could not spare a single fuck for her.

And so, he decided to keep quiet, no matter how much she begged him to talk to her.

“Anton, please,” she pleaded, her voice dry.

But there was nothing to be said.

He was gone.

He had abandoned him.

And hadn’t even bothered to give him a real reason.

And Anton was left adrift.

Numb to it all.

Seconds stretching into hours, hours condensing into seconds.

The passage of time uneven and indecipherable.

Strange and convoluted.

A blink, and darkness engulfed Winterfell.

Another, and the sun’s bright rays stinged his eyes.

Yet another, and the full moon stood high in the sky.

A bright orb with a wine tint.

The Bloodmoon.

A sight that inspired dread on the peasants.

The superstition of eldritch creatures roaming the lands underneath the night sky.

Forbidden rituals of elder magic.

Hidden underneath the cover of darkness.

Unbelonging to this realm of existence.

_Where they real?_

Anton kept his eyes fixated on the moon. 

_Do you know?_  

He wondered.

_Can you know?_

_What happens underneath your red light?_

_Is it your will?_

_Or are you truly just as meaningless as everything else?_

_No, there has to be more than that._

_Tell me your secrets._

_I wish to know._

_Show me your truth._

_I wish to know._

_Give me enlightenment._

_I wish to know._

_Guide my way._

_I wish to know._

A raven’s laugh resonated in his head, sharp and cruel.

Sinister and mocking.

Its three eyes judging with unconcealed hostility.

Its mere presence said otherwise.

For the offer was clear:

A welcoming darkness.

Promises of what laid beyond the real.

Asking for a leap of faith.

Embracement of the chaos.

Be consumed by it.

A small price to pay for knowledge.

For understanding.

For the insight he so sorely craved.

And so he leapt.

And the Black rose up to consume him.

 

* * *

 

For the seventh consecutive day, Anton had not come out of his room, denying himself food and communication. He no longer even took the time to tell Sansa off when she knocked on his door.

Uncle Benjen’s sudden departure had left all of Winterfell reeling and in disarray. Aunt Dacey had her hands full dealing with her other four children, all too young to even begin to understand what was happening around them, as well as dealing with her own grief. Her mother did her best to help Dacey out, but could only do so much before her own children demanded her attention, and her father was dealing with his lordly duties, and when not, praying on the Godswood, a permanent look of regret in his face.

It was not out of malice, but out of sheer misfortune that Anton had been neglected. Anton, who had suffered the most, who had called for his father to come back as he left. And so, Sansa had taken it upon herself to take care of her beloved cousin.

Or so she would have, had he let her in. Had he opened the door when she brought him supper. Had he answered her pleas.

Had he not refused her, as he had everyone else in Winterfell.

By the third day after Uncle Benjen’s departure, Aunt Dacey had tried her best to spend with her eldest son as much time as the demands for attention of her other children allowed her, but Anton had refused to see even her. To even acknowledge her own mother’s voice.

In the end, it had come to this.

Sansa turned to look at her father.

“Is this really necessary, father?”

Ned Stark sighed in regret, looking older and more tired than ever before. “I sincerely wish it wasn’t, but it’s for his own good.”

“How can this be for his own good?” Sansa asked in incomprehension.

“Sometimes,” Domeric, who had been standing to the side with concern in his eyes, interjected, “we have to force our help on those who won’t help themselves.” Her father nodded in agreement.

“We’ve lost too much time already. Enough is enough,” the Lord stated, hand firmly placed on Sansa’s shoulder. “Jory, bring the door down.”

“Alright, lads, you heard the lord!” Jory commanded the household guards, burly, strong men that held in their arms a battering ram. “On my mark!”

Sansa turned to Domeric, confused as to his presence. She had always liked the Bolton lordling, a kind and polite youth who had always indulged her in her fancies whenever possible; he was as good to her as her own family. But Anton… “He’s always been mean to you,” Sansa pointed out meekly.

“Three!”

“So? Is that a reason to deny him help when he needs it the most?” Domeric replied simply.

“Two!”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“One!”

“It doesn’t matter if it does. What matters is what I do about it. And I choose to help him.”

“Now!”

The door, upon being hit, buckled open immediately, the pieces of furniture that had blocked it on the other side unable to resist the strength of the ram and scattering.

“Stay here.” 

Sansa nodded at her father’s stern request as he walked across the door into Anton’s room. Time seemed to stretch as she stared anxiously at the dark room’s open door, a deep pit growing and growing in her stomach. Was Anton alright? Or had something happened? Would he accept any help?

She didn’t have to wait long for most of her questions to be answered.

“Get him to Maester Luwin’s tower, now!” her father’s voice roared, barely a second after entering the room.

Before any of the Stark guardsmen could even react, swift as lightning, Domeric ran through the door. A few seconds later he reappeared, carrying Anton in his arms.

“Anton!” Sansa gasped in horror.

Her cousin was feverish, pale and gaunt, his inanition for the past week taking its toll on his body. His dark hair was greasy and matted to his sweating forehead, and his eyes reddened and unfocused.

“Out of my way!” Domeric shouted as he opened himself way to the bridge that connected the Maester’s tower with the Great Keep. She ran after him, barely giving a thought to her low-lying skirts which she would have otherwise held up to avoid tripping over. At that moment, she couldn’t care less about falling to the ground, bruising her legs or dirtying her dress. Anton needed her.

Within a matter of minutes, they were inside Maester Luwin’s study, Anton sprawled on the desk, and the old maester furiously checking his vital signs. Domeric stood to the side, panting from the exertion, while Sansa stepped forward to grab hold of her cousin’s hand. He was cold to the touch and unresponsive, mumbling nonsensical words underneath his breath.

“When was the last time he ate something?” Maester Luwin asked, as he examined Anton’s unfocused eyes.

“He stopped drinking water two days ago,” Sansa sniffed. “Before that, he refused the food, but at least accepted the water I brought him.”

“That probably saved his life,” Luwin muttered. “The body can only go on for four days without water.”

Sansa gulped with some effort, the knot in her throat too tight. “Will he… will he be alright?”

“With some treatment and rest, yes, he should,” the maester wiped some sweat out of his forehead before wheeling around towards his drawer, searching for something. “Right now, he’s running a fever because of the dehydration, but once we take care of it it should pass. Here,” turning around, he passed her an opaque vial filled with liquid, “he must drink this potion every few minutes. Since he is unconscious, we’ll have to wet his lips with it until he wakes up. Only then we can administer it the way should,” he said as he proceeded to do just that. His uneasy tone only made the pit in Sansa’s stomach grow deeper, and she had to suppress a shiver.

Her gaze turned towards Anton, breathing shallowly and irregularly, his lips glistening with the humidity of the liquid Luwin had administered. She felt her heart shatter into thousands of pieces, stabbing her chest like broken glass. She barely registered the words spoken by the other two in the room.

“Is there nothing else we can do?” Domeric asked, still panting between words.

“Not until he wakes up,” Luwin replied, rubbing his forehead.

“Are you sure?” the boy insisted.

“Very much, Domeric... Although...” the maester paused, as if considering something new, “I could try to make another beverage to force him to wake up, but that would only take us so far. He’s unconscious for a reason. It would not be sustainable. True, it could help him rehydrate, but...”

“It’s worth a shot, maester,” Bolton interrupted anxiously.

Maester Luwin looked at the boy in his table with apprehension. To prepare the beverage, he would have to collect the herbs in the glass gardens, Sansa realised. He would have to leave his study. To leave Anton unsupervised.

“I’ll… I’ll take care of him while you’re busy, maester,” Sansa spoke up, trying to smile in reassurance at the old man, if only to feel more confident herself. Her voice, however, was brittle and weak, betraying her affliction.

Maester Luwin didn’t seem completely reassured. Nonetheless, he nodded gingerly before hurriedly stepping out of the study.

Domeric stood awkwardly by the door for an instant, as if awaiting for some instructions from her.

“I’ve got this, really,” she insisted, nodding at Domeric. “You should go help maester Luwin.”

For a few moments, he pursed his lips and stared at Anton’s unconscious form. Eventually he nodded back at her and left, closing the door behind him.

Turning around towards the table, Sansa observed her cousin’s unconscious face, absentmindedly moving a stray lock of hair out of his clammy forehead. Anton had an unnatural pallor, the bags underneath his eyes deep and dark, and a pained grimace.

_What is he dreaming about?_ Sansa wondered, trying and failing to focus on something less heart-wrenching than the sight in front of her. The cousins had always told each other their secrets, hopes and dreams, both the good and the bad, with no exceptions. _Will he tell me, this time? Will he even remember it?_

_Will he… will he even wake up to tell me about it?_

And so, the dam she had kept carefully on check burst.

_Please, please be all right,_ Sansa prayed to every God that listened to her as she pressed her lips against Anton’s feverish forehead, the tears she had been holding back running down her cheeks. _Please wake up. I’ll be right here until you do. I’ll hold you while you cry if you need it. I’ll do whatever you want. Whatever you need._

_Just please wake up._

 

* * *

 

[Anton Stark stood barefoot on the fields of snow.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BhGZkdODoDM)

_Isn’t this what you wanted?_ The cruel and mocking voice of the raven asked him.

“What even _is_ this?”

It was a senseless question, for he knew what stood in front of him.

_You asked for insight._

_You asked for knowledge._

“This is not what I wanted,” he muttered.

He would recognise it anywhere.

_It is what you asked for._

“This is not what I wanted!” he repeated, more forcefully this time.

Despite its state.

_Not what you wanted to see._

_But what your heart desired to know._

Winterfell was abandoned.

The greatest fortress in the North, the bastion of the Starks and the centre of political power for centuries and millennia, was vacant of any occupants. 

The Great Keep was crumbling and dilapidated, and the Godswood overgrown and twisted, eldritch and unholy. The rains wept and wept over the empty, crumbling halls, devoid of any life. 

Ashes fell from the sky like snow. 

The Bloodmoon hanging over it all, tinting reality red.

“The death of my kin? Of everyone I’ve ever loved?” He couldn’t help but laugh, a bitter sound that echoed on the ruins. “No. This is not what I wanted. This is not what I want. Never.”

_So you claim._

_And yet, you asked for guidance._

_This is your guidance._

“What kind of guidance is this?!” he snapped.

_The knowledge that Winterfell has no place for you._

“I am a Stark,” Anton said. “Winterfell is my home.”

_Do not fool yourself. A Stark you might be, but are you treated as such?_

_The wolves prefer to dance with the flayer than with their own, and even her, the one you’ve always loved and protected, dreams only of a new cloak made of skin to cover her from the cold of winter._

_Your mother ignores you, instead of hugging you and whispering sweet nothings into your ears as you drift to sleep. A she-bear who cannot stand to look at her own cub, for the grief consumes her so._

_Your siblings care not for you, for you are as much a stranger to them as a dog to a cat._

_When the cold winter comes, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives._

_And they have rejected you._

_They have casted you away._

_To die in the snow._

_Alone._

“Lies,” Anton weakly protested, but he couldn’t deny the truth in the raven’s words.

He was a Stark, a trueborn son of Winterfell, and yet a fucking Bolton was more beloved by his family than he was? Was more of a kinsman to his own family than himself? What crimes had he ever committed, but try to defend his home from the invasion of their eternal enemy? What had he ever done to deserve this? To deserve the cold shoulder from his cousins? To deserve the indifference of his uncle? Of his mother?

The abandonment of his father, the only anchor he had left?

They had abandoned him.

Everyone.

Every single one of them.

The raven cared not for his turmoil.

_The wolf pup, the bear cub that was cast aside._

_Child of a runaway._

_Inheritor of nothing._

_Your future does not lie in Winterfell._

_Do not attempt to delude yourself otherwise, for it will only bring you further grief._

_And death to everyone you love._

“I…” Anton tried to speak up, but choked on his desolation.

_For, despite everything, you still love them._

_For that is your sin._

_You love those that don’t love you._

_That never will._

_That never have._

_Their oaths otherwise are mere lies to make you feel better._

_Laughing at your back._

_There is no place for you in Winterfell._

_A home that does not belong to you._

“But if not Winterfell, where?” he asked, utterly lost and alone. “Essos?”

_Leaving for Essos would be a bigger mistake._

_The land of the sellswords and the horselords are merely a distraction for the real wars to come._

“Where, then, huh? The Wall?” he spat hatefully, the word bitter in his mouth. “The end of the world?”

_The end of the world?_ The raven barked a laugh. 

_The Wall is only the end of the world for those of narrow minds._

_For those too cowardly to venture forth._

_To learn of what lies beyond._

“No,” Anton breathed, understanding dawning on him. “No. No, I won’t do it. I refuse.”

_It is not your choice to make,_ the raven sentenced.

And the world came crashing down in a swirl of ash and darkness.

The eldritch presence of the Bloodmoon was all that was left.

Painted red with the blood of the dead.

Mere pawns to a game they would never comprehend.

 

* * *

 

_Dear Robb:_

_Are you serious? Because if you’re not, it’s a joke in very poor taste._

_If you are… Oh Gods, that’s terrible. I don’t even know what to say. I’m so, so sorry. Please tell me you are alright. Is Anton going to be fine? I never thought something like that would happen._

_If there’s anything I can do to help, even all the way from Highgarden, please tell me._

_The wedding was largely uneventful. I’m not saying it was boring, by any stretch, but to be fair, with all the tourneys and feasts we have in the Reach one eventually gets numb to the celebrations. Still, it was a very special ocassion. It’s not often than your brother gets married, after all. Willas was all the gallant lordling and Jeyne a perfect blushing bride._

_During the feast and dance, though, there was this very annoying kid, a Kidwell, who kept harassing me and asking me out to dance. Apparently, ‘no’ means something different in Ivy Hall than it does in Highgarden, because he would not stop and would become more and more obnoxious with each time I said so. In the end, I just snapped at him that I was betrothed and that he should leave me alone if he didn’t want to invoke my husband-to-be’s wrath._

_For some reason, he had the gall to_ _challenge_ _my supposed betrothed for my hand in single combat, and demanded to know whom he would be fighting._

_I would love to say that I handled the incident with all the tact and grace of any respectable highborn lady worth her name, but the truth is that I totally panicked and just_ _spouted the first name that came to my mind. That is, yours._

_You should have seen how swiftly he paled, retracted, begged for forgiveness and ran away. I think he actually shat himself; I distinctly recall a foul smell that wasn’t there before._

_Apparently, Stark, your name already carries weight down here, even if you can’t grow a beard yet! What exactly have you been up to, that the mere mention of your name warrants such a reaction so far south?_

_I hope everything is alright in Winterfell. I’m sorry about your uncle and your cousin. I hope Anton gets better soon._

_Maggie._

 

* * *

 

_Dear Maggie._

_When have I ever joked about something like that?_

_I’m alright, I guess. Still reeling from how out of the blue everything was._

_Anton woke up, and is better now... Relatively speaking. He’s always been a moody kid, but now he’s gotten worse. He lashes out at Domeric (who, it should be noted, has been nothing but unfailingly kind to him) more often, and even Steffon Dustin, his best (and only, really) friend, has been having trouble keeping up with him._

_Do you remember that time, a few years ago, when he dressed up in plate armour and proclaimed himself “Iron Man” or something like that? Well, now, for some reason he keeps to himself, he’s always wearing plate armour. Even for supper. Any time anyone tries to ask him to take it off, he just snaps at them to sod off. Not even Sansa gets through to him, and he’s always had a weak spot for her. Hells, she took care of him while he was unconscious, yet he barely even looks at her as it is._

_I know it’s unfair to him. I know it’s been the hardest for him, but we’re at our wits’ end, to be honest. It’s been already two months and he keeps being needlessly hostile to everyone in Winterfell, his own mother included. Even Lya has gotten over it by now, and she’s barely five._

_What a cunt, that Kidwell guy. Give me his name, so I can beat the shit out of him should I ever meet him._

_What have I been up to? Ehm. Practising swordplay, having my lessons with Maester Luwin, being abandoned by my uncle, being insulted gratuitously by my cousin and learning rulership from my father? I mean, the worst thing I’ve done was sneaking a jackass and a honeycomb the last time Theon went to a brothel, but that was that and it was Jon’s idea in the first place._

_Okay, no, it was my idea._

_Still. I’ve done nothing to warrant a kid shitting his pants at the mere mention of my name. Makes me wonder exactly_ _what_ _do you southrons say about us Starks, instead._

_Thank you. We’ll be fine._

_Robb._

_PS: So… Betrothed, huh?_

 

* * *

 

“Real smooth, dumbass.”

“Shut up, Theon.” 

 

* * *

  

**296.**

 

As Jon waited for the librarian, spindly and unfailingly chipper Maester Brus, Luwin’s assistant, to check out in the ledger the book he was borrowing, he spared a glance at the tall and vaulted rooms, filled to the brim with dusty old books and scrolls, millennia of accumulated knowledge.

The library was almost completely devoid of all life. As always.

Except for one corner, where Alys Karstark had her nose buried in a _very_ dense book. As always.

Usually, Jon would just leave her to her own designs and go do something else, but this time there was something different. True, he had always been slightly curious as to what kind of books could be so interesting that she had spent almost the two whole years since she had arrived in Winterfell reading, but he had rarely spared her a second thought. And yet, now there was something he couldn’t quite pinpoint that drew him towards her. Perhaps his curiosity had finally overwhelmed him. 

“Thank you very much, Maester Brus,” he duly nodded, his mind on the girl reading in the corner.

“Nonsense, Jon,” he said amicably. “Just give my regards to your siblings for me.” His tone suddenly became somber. “Except Arya.”

That threw Jon off, shaking him out cold off his daze. “Why not Arya?”

Brus appeared annoyed. “She filled my boots with dung because I told her to listen to her Septa.”

Jon had to stifle his smile. “I’ll make sure to give her a stern talking to,” he promised. Brus shot him a knowing look. _Yeah, not even I believe that one,_  Jon admitted to himself. _Besides, mother has probably already gotten to her by now._ “Take care,” he said his goodbye, and turned towards the door, stopping himself just as he was going to open it.

He turned his gaze towards Alys, absorbed in her reading.

Then back to the door.

Then back to Alys.

_Eh, what the hells._

Turning on his heels, he walked towards Alys’ corner.

“Why is it that everytime I come to the library, you’re always here?” Jon wondered aloud as he reached her.

Instead of jumping in surprise as he half-expected her to do, the girl only levelled him a nonchalant glance.

“Because I like reading...?” she asked, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Right, but why not do so on your bedchamber, I mean?”

“Because I share it with Torr and he smells awful most of the time ever since he started joining you guys in your never-ending sparring sessions,” Alys pinched her nose, then smiled contently. “Besides, the library is always empty and quiet.” She leveled him an amused look. “Or at least, most of the time. What are _you_ doing here, Stark?”

Jon simply held the book he had checked out high so Alys could see it.

“I’m taking out _‘The Prince'_ by Nykos Myrakis,” he added. It sounded somewhat lame to his ears.

“Never heard of it,” Alys stated blankly. _I don’t blame you, neither had I before half an hour ago._

“It’s a Pentoshi political treatise. I’m actually amazed that we have it in the library. Father assigned its reading to me and Robb. Robb is pretty excited about it, but…”

“You’re not?”

Jon nodded tiredly. “I mean, I understand the need for me to learn politics and everything, but I’m not the heir to Winterfell.”

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t pay attention to politics,” she frowned. “Life rarely goes the way we want it to go. Look at your father, for example; he was a second son, too, and now he’s the Lord of Winterfell. It’s better to be prepared, you know. Just in case you end up as Lord of Riverrun.”

“Riverrun?” Jon frowned. That wasn’t what he was expecting. “Uncle Edmure is barely a decade older than me. He’ll have heirs.”

“But what if he doesn’t?” Alys insisted.

“He _will,_ " Jon stated with finality. He sighed. “Truth be told, I _don’t_ want to become a lord. I’m happy here. I’m happy being Robb’s right hand man. I don’t want to be tied down to a fiefdom that was bought with my kin’s untimely death. I mean, would _you_ like to be the Lady of Karhold?”

“Hells, no,” Alys replied with the same certainty. “I love my brothers too much to wish something so dreadful.”

“My point exactly.” _Although I barely know Uncle Edmure, to be honest. Still, he’s family, and that’s that._

An awkward silence fell upon them. Jon pursed his lips, before deciding to change the subject to the first thing that came to mind.

“What are you reading?” he inquired, sitting down on the chair across her. If she was annoyed by the continued interruption, she didn’t show it.

_"'The War of the Roses’_ , by Maester Jon Hardying.”

“Never heard of that one.” And _he_ would know. Along with Robb, the twins had cultivated an encyclopedic knowledge about Westerosi warfare across the centuries. It was something they were very proud of, but caused their father dismay as he tried to steer their knowledge towards the other, less spectacular aspects of rulership.

“Because it’s fictional. It’s a novel.” At Jon’s head’s quizzical tilt, Alys added: “You know, like the songs of the bards, except actually enjoyable and not a bunch of nonsense.”

 “What is it about? About an orchard that descends into civil war to be the prettiest rose of the garden?” Jon japed.

“You’re not that far off, you know,” Alys said with a shrug and a small smile. “It’s set in a fictional world. There’s this island kingdom, like Westeros, called England.” She paused for a few seconds. “Well, the island is actually called Great Britain. There’s a big kingdom on the island named England, and a smaller one up north called Scotland. Small Britain is a peninsula on the kingdom of France, which is very big and lies on the mainland to the south. Some tribes called the bret—Wait, I’m getting sidetracked,” she blinked, as if confused.

Jon had to stifle a laugh at Alys’ wide eyed look. “Go on…”

She shook her head. “Well, just like Westeros, England has many powerful houses. And by the time of the book, in the year 1450 after Jesus—”

“1450 after _what?"_

“After the birth of a guy named Jesus,” she repeated. “He’s like, this guy with magical powers who could walk on water, heal the sick and turn water into wine.”

“That sounds pretty amazing.”

Alys raised her eyebrows playfully. “They crucified him for that.”

“Aaand it stopped being amazing,” Jon replied nonchalantly without missing a beat. If he had a cup of tea with him, he would have sipped it awkwardly.

“That didn’t stop his followers, though, from claiming him to be the son of God.”

_‘God’? As in singular?_  Jon decided to suspend his disbelief. It was, after all, fiction. “Huh. Must have been a very good wine.” 

Alys giggled.

“Must have,” she continued, “because by 1450, there’s this whole religion based around him. Like the Faith of the Seven, you know, the whole ‘Seven and One’ thing, but with Jesus instead of the whole bunch. There’s this whole polemic regarding just how much of a deity he was and many wars were fought about it.”

Jon blinked. “Well, now that’s just silly.”

Alys shrugged. “Maybe. The Spanish Inquisition would burn you at the stake for saying that, though.”

“The what now?” he blinked, even more confused than before.

“And _nobody_ would expect it,” she added, a sly smirk in her face.

“What are you talking about?” Jon blinked for the third time.

_"'Recuerdos de la Alhambra’_ by Maester Claudys,” Alys waved off the question.

Jon blinked a few times in stunned silence. After around half a minute, he licked his lips, took a deep breath, and shouted: _“Was that even the Common Tongue?!”_

“Well, no,” Alys answered with a grin. “Maester Claudys was a dornishman, and one of the most prolific writers of the Histories. He made up his own language for the kingdom based off of Dorne, called Spain – or _España_ , I guess – , and even titled his books in said language. _‘Recuerdos de la Alhambra’_ would more or less mean ‘Memories of the Alhambra’ (which is a fortress, like the Red Keep) in the Common Tongue. The whole ‘Spanish Inquisition’ thing is a reference to that book,” Alys explained, as if it was the most simple thing in the universe.

Jon was amazed at just how much of a bookworm Alys was. At first glimpse, he had just assumed she was one of those dainty ladies that faint at everything, like Sansa had once threatened to become before Aunt Dacey and Dom had set her straight. But now, Alys was just so… _excited,_ talking about whatever the Histories were, that he couldn’t take his eyes off her. 

_Appearances can be deceiving,_  his mother’s warning voice resounded in his head. For the first time in forever, he was glad she was right while he wasn’t.

“Well, as I was saying, by the year 1450, in the kingdom of England, the two most powerful Houses are the Yorks and the Lancasters.” He couldn’t help but snort.  _Those names sound familiar._ “Sound familiar?” she asked, almost as if she was privy to his thoughts.

“The Yorks don’t happen to live in a place called Summerrise, do they?” he deadpanned.

Alys snickered. “No, they’re originally from York,” she said. “Family names among the nobility are usually toponymical in the Histories. But point taken. I mean,” she rolled her eyes, “at times there’s some really original stuff in here... and then we have Lancaster. _Lancaster!"_  she emphasised with a laugh. “I’m impressed Lord Tywin hasn’t burned the Citadel down for that one yet. There’s even a Walter Tyrell in another of these books.”

That made him wonder. “Would that make me Jon York in that world, then?”

“Yes and no; you would be Jon of York.” She paused as she played with her single braid, brow furrowed in thought. “Or _John_ of York, I guess.”

“What’s the difference?” Jon raised an eyebrow.

“There’s an _H_ between the _O_ and the _N."_

He frowned. “Odd.” The mere idea of spelling his name as _John_ … It made him unreasonably uncomfortable.

“I know, right?! And there’s more! For some reason, the authors saw fit to just arbitrarily mess every name’s spelling! We’ve got _Edward, Richard, Henry, George, Charles, Philippe, Louis…_ I mean, I’m not even sure what names those last two are even supposed to be!” she exclaimed, laughing. “How do you even pronounce half of them?”

“Louis… It could be Loras, maybe?” he wondered, thinking back on Robb’s chatter about his imaginary girlfriend’s imaginary family. “I mean, it starts _Lo_ and ends in _s,_  I guess it makes sense, no?”

A beat.

“... Maybe...?” Alys drawled out, then shrugged noncommittally. “I don’t know, it’s very weird.”

Before Jon could say anything else, something clicked on his head.

“Hold up, the _authors?"_  As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt stupid. Of course there were more than _one_ author. She had said as much already, but in his defense, she had said so much that he was barely keeping up with her.

If Alys thought he was stupid for asking something so obvious, though, she didn’t show it. “Yes! There are many, many other books like this one or _‘Recuerdos de la Alhambra’_. It’s like a whole canon some maesters of the Citadel with too much time on their hands have contributed to across the centuries. It’s very convoluted. It’s an entire world, thousands of years of history. There’s hundreds of kingdoms, of religions, of languages, of wars… They even add the genealogy of the main characters in an appendix at the end of each book!”

“How come _I just_ found out about this?” Jon asked, befuddled.

“Because Maester Luwin doesn’t care for the fictitious?” Alys shrugged, half-question and half-statement.

Jon nodded. He was quite fond of the old man, he really was, but he truly had no sense of imagination, valyrian-steel-chain notwithstanding. “Fair enough. So, the book?” He pointed at ' _War of the Roses'_.

“Oh, right!” Alys perked up. “Well, the crown of England belongs to this House called _Plantagênet,_ with a weird triangle on top of the first _e_ – she showed it to him. Indeed, there was a weird triangle on top of the first _e_. Jon frowned in confusion. _What is that even supposed to mean?_ – that I’m not sure what it means but it’s there, so there’s that. Anyways, there have been some good kings, some bad, and some old. Old King Edward, the third of his name, was very wise, and capable, and had been on the throne for over fifty years, bringing peace and much needed stability to England following the strife his inept father’s rule had sown, and fathered many sons, who became powerful landlords of their own right and whose descendants would become key players in the politics of the following generations.”

“He reminds me of King Jaehaerys I,” Jon mused.

“He’s most likely based off of him, yes,” Alys nodded, clearly enjoying the back and forth. And, he had to admit, so was he. “Just like his eldest son, Prince Edward, is like Prince Aemon and Baelon in one.”

“How so?”

“A great would-be-king who predeceased his father by tragically shitting himself to death.”

Jon was momentarily confused. “Dysentery?” _Neither Aemon nor Baelon died of that, though. Aemon got shot through the neck and Baelon had a burst belly,_ he couldn’t help but think.

“You got it,” Alys snapped her fingers into… something. Thumb up, index finger pointing at him, the remaining fingers curled. He had never seen such a gesture. “And with his death, everything went to seven hells in a handbasket.”

“Why? He didn’t have a son to pass the crown to?” _And caused a succession crisis amongst his brothers?_

“Worse. He _did._ ” _Well, that’s not so bad._ “And when Old King Edward finally died, the crown passed to this little megalomaniacal brat named Richard, the second of his name, who grew up to terrorise the whole kingdom with his tyranny and arbitrariness.”

_Well, that’s really bad._ “Aerys?”

Alys played absentmindedly with her braid, mulling how to reply to that. “Well, yes, but actually no. He _is_ like him, but no, this one was written almost a full century before him, at the very least. Still, it’s not like history has had a shortage of tyrants to draw inspiration from.”

He nodded. “Fair enough.”

“Well, Richard came into conflict with his cousin, Henry, the Duke of Lancaster—”

“‘Duke’?”

“The maesters also invented this whole hierarchy of lords with funny names. Dukes, Earls, Counts, etc. A Duke, I think, would be like a Great Lord, like you Starks, or the Arryns, and so on. Earls would be like us Karstarks, or the Umbers, your major bannermen; and a Count would be a smaller vassal, or a vassal of a vassal, like the Forresters to the Glovers. Now, are you done interrupting me?” Alys tilted her head, flashing him a sardonic smile.

“Yes, my lady,” Jon duly replied, barely able to keep a smile out of his own face.

“Thought as much. Anyway,” she continued, “Duke Henry of Lancaster eventually deposed Richard and crowned himself King as Henry IV of England, because he, too, was Old King Edward’s direct grandson by male line via his second son, John of Gaunt.”

She paused for a beat.

“Wait, no, _third_ son.”

It was all the same to Jon, to be honest, but there was something endearing about how much she cared about all the little details.

She shook her head, trying to get back on track. “And that was that for a few decades; Henry IV’s son, who was _also_ called Henry (fifth of his name), successfully claimed the crown of France – a neighbouring kingdom,” she began explaining offhandedly, so entranced on what she was saying that she didn’t seem to care if Jon understood so much as half of what she spoke, “very powerful and often rival to England; Old King Edward’s mother had been a French princess whose brothers had all been kings and died without any heirs and the throne went to a cousin instead of her and her issue, and since then England and France had been fighting an on and off war for the French throne – and then almost immediately afterwards shat himself to death—”

“Again?” Jon exclaimed in surprise, finally able to grasp onto something of what Alys was saying.

“Edward III’s great-great-grandfather, King John, went out the same way, too. That family is cursed, I tell you,” Alys shook her head, amused.

“King John?” Jon perked in recognition at his name. “Was he a good king?” he asked curiously.

Absolute silence. Alys only stared at him with her lips pursed, a fine, thin, pink line.

“Wow, _that_ bad?”

“ _Worse,_ ” she stated laconically. “Well, as I was saying, Henry V died and left both thrones, English and French, to his baby son, Henry, sixth of his name. You’re probably picking up a pattern with the names, here. Now, Henry VI is a very special boy, you see.”

“Why?”

“Hodor is half-witted, is he not?” Jon frowned. He didn’t like when people mocked Hodor, gratuitously or not. He was a very gentle soul, and he deserved to be treated right. Still, he nodded gingerly. “Well, Henry has no wits at all. As he grew up he’s had these episodes of mental collapse that just leave him catatonic and other people have had to take charge of ruling. And when he _doesn’t_ have these episodes, he is easily manipulated by these people.”

“Like the Hand of the King?”

“Ehhh, yes and no. There is no 'Hand of the King’ as such. There is a Lord Chancellor, however, and very powerful landlords holding powerful seats on the council. And of course, they all hate each other’s guts and try to steer the realm to satisfy their own ambitions.”

“Typical,” Jon rolled his eyes. Real or not, the high lords were always the same.

“And very few hate each other as much as Queen Margaret of Anjou (a French princess), Henry’s wife, and the King’s cousin, Richard, the Duke of York—who, surprise surprise, is _also_ Old King Edward’s direct great-grandson by male line through his fourth son. And, of course, that means that he is also a claimant to the crown of England, and if Henry dies without an heir, the crown would pass unto him. Now, Margaret, as any good queen, is all like _‘oh no you don’t’_  because she wants her own sons, if she were to have any, to become kings. And when Henry suffers a bout of complete mental collapse (the first of many), the French rise up to regain their independence, and the Lord Chancellor dies with Henry incapacitated and thus incapable of nominating a successor, a Great Council is called to deal with all these problems and to assume the Regency. So, of course, York manages to get himself named Lord Protector, Regent, and all those big fancy titles that everyone else wanted.”

“A shrewd man,” Jon observed.

“Yes, but after Margaret gave birth to a baby called Edward and Henry regained most of his faculties, they take his titles and influence away one by one with that politicking southrons are so fond of. Facing the threat of being named traitor by Margaret and her supporters, Richard finally responds with force of arms in the year 1455, _supposedly_ aiming to ‘remove poor advisors’ from the side of good King Henry (of course, he left aside the part where he installed _himself_ as advisor). There’s a small battle, and he wins, shunning aside Margaret and her faction as he regains his standing and power within court. Tensions remain pretty high, so they do their best to settle their differences before this one small battle can escalate into a full-blown war, but the most important question remains: who will succeed to the throne? Will it be Henry VI and Margaret’s rightful but infant son, Edward, or the King’s cousin, Richard of York, a popular man who was also the most powerful landlord on the realm? Is a peaceful solution even possible?”

Despite being a completely fictitious, even silly, story, Jon had to admit he was very much hooked. “So? What happens next?”

Alys flashed him a coy smile.

“No idea, you interrupted me just as I finished the chapter." _'Otherwise I would have just ignored you and continued reading’_ , her gaze playfully implied.

A moment of silence followed, as Jon tried to process all of what Alys had just told him. Eventually, with a confused frown, he simply asked, “why exactly is the book called _‘War of the Roses’_ anyway?”

“Oh, because the Lancasters’ sigil is a red rose, and the Yorks’ is a white rose,” she said. Jon simply snorted. _Hardying, you really didn’t put that much of an effort to be original, eh?_ As if reading his thoughts (or perhaps just correctly guessing why he snorted), she raised an eyebrow and gave him a sardonic smirk. “I imagine the colours are ringing a bell?”

Jon snickered. 

A new moment of silence followed. “Well, that was… definitely interesting,” he eventually said.

“And there’s mooore~!” Alys happily said in a sing-song voice.

Jon laughed, raising his hands up in surrender. “I think my head’s going to explode if you keep cramming more information into my brain. Where did you even get all of this?”

“Father had a handful of books in Karhold, and requested more be sent from the Citadel when he saw how much I liked them. I brought Maester Moris’ _The Accursed Kings_ – the lead up to the war between England and France from the French perspective – with me from Karhold, but the library here is full of other books of the canon. Maester Brus recommended me this one, for example—”

Jon looked at Alys excitably speak as he pondered, barely registering her impassioned words.

Alys Karstark was, undeniably, a very pretty girl, with her pointy chin, blue-grey eyes, and a skin so white and soft that looked like ivory, and that was something he had noticed as soon as she and Torr had arrived to Winterfell a year ago. There was something so familiar about her looks, but, Jon supposed, it made sense since she was from a cadet branch of the Starks.

While he hadn’t given her much thought afterwards, as the girl was rather quiet and unassuming, he found that he rather liked her company. She was unlike all those maidens many lords had already sent his way (he was, after all, Lord Stark’s second son) that were, to quote his little sister, ‘stupid as a rock’ and knew only how to blush prettily in his presence and hardly anything else. Good thing the body functions on its own, or they would have forgotten how to breathe upon seeing him and died. That would have been awkward.

Alys, on the other hand, was a weird person. But it was a good weird, Jon thought. She didn’t treat him any different, he observed, from how she treated anyone else, which was a very refreshing change of pace when compared to said starstruck maidens that treated him like he was the trueborn heir to the Iron Throne. She was smart, sardonic, with a quick wit and very well read, with a certain loner disposition that just drew him towards her. Even if it was fiction, he felt like he was actually learning something with every word she spoke. And many times he had found himself thinking something, just for her to voice his thoughts without any nudging. They seemed to “click” in a way he only had done with Robb (obviously) and Arya.

He certainly wouldn’t mind spending more time with her.

“Jon?” her soft voice woke him out of his reverie.

“Yes?” he replied, slightly shaken out of his stupor.

“The staring,” she snapped, her voice suddenly as dry as the red sands of Dorne. “It’s starting to get creepy.”

“Oh. Err... So-sorry,” he managed to spit out, flustered, as he scratched the back of his neck. 

Alys giggled. He found he rather liked that sound. “I’m just messing with you.”

He swiftly changed topic, before he had the chance to blush even further. “W-where would you advise I should begin if I wanted to read these books?”

With a frown, Alys blinked a couple of times before answering. “Good question. I think you should best begin with Maester Heward’s _Hallowed Land._ Chronologically speaking, it’s the one that goes further back into the past. It spans the millennia _before_ Jesus, and _this one”_ – she raised _War of the Roses_ for emphasis – “takes place almost a millennium and a half _after_ Jesus. There are some that go even further into the past, like the _Cradle of Civilisation_ saga by Maester Jeor, but I think _Hallowed Land_ is the most important one to understand what’s going on in this world.”

“Is it also set up in this… Big Britten?”

“Great Britain,” she corrected him automatically, “and not by any stretch. It takes place in a place called Egypt.” 

“Is that close to, er, Great Britain?”

“Eventually, it _is_ Great Britain, but that’s a story for another time…” she trailed off, with an amused look. Jon didn’t even make an effort to understand what she meant by that. After a short pause, she shot him a sly grin. “Tell you what. Since barely anybody is ever here, how about we hang out at least twice a week to read and talk about the Histories?”

“Really?” Jon had to keep his voice in check, to avoid sounding like he was eager to do so. 

Which he was!

But it was none of Alys’ business knowing so.

“If you can keep up, of course,” she smirked.

“You doubt I could, _Karstark?”_ He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes, his tone defiant.

“Then prove me wrong, _Stark,”_ she challenged, matching his every gesture perfectly.

_Oh, I will._

 

* * *

 

_Dear Maggie,_

_Do you remember what you told me when I said Alys Karstark was on Winterfell? That I should be wary of her because she might try to hook me into a betrothal?_

_Gods, has that aged poorly. The girl is a certified bookworm, and only steps out of the library for supper and sleep. She doesn’t even speak with anyone but her brother. And now_ _my_ _brother, too._

_I’m not sure when it happened, but apparently they’re friends or something now. Jon is at least twice a week with her on the library, doing Gods-know-what, and only returning late at night with the stupidest grin I’ve ever seen him wield. Theon and Dom are so proud, and Torr pretends to be annoyed, but I know he approves of whatever is going on between Jon and his sister._

_Arya, though, looks like she wants to gut Alys like a fish. She has always been a bit possessive over Jon, and is_ _not_ _happy about him spending time with someone else instead of with her._

_Everything else is business as usual. The most unusual thing that has happened was that Lord Manderly came to Winterfell the other day to personally update us (father insisted on my presence during the audience) on the status of the fleet. According to him, by now it’s one of the strongest navies on Westeros, but that’s such a tall claim that I’ll believe it when I see it._

_He also wanted to name the flagship ‘Lord Eddard’, and I proposed naming it ‘Winter’, but my father eventually decided it should be named ‘Cat’ instead. It was so cheesy I almost retched._

_Warmly,_

_Robb._

_PS: I didn’t know what else to say to sign off, but I didn’t want to end my letter speaking about, well, that. Besides, I guess we’re there, right?_

 

* * *

 

“You call _that_ ‘flirting’?”

“Theon, I swear to every God there is…”

 

* * *

 

_Dear Robb,_

_Truly, now? Looks like our little Jon is finally growing up!_

_I stand by my analysis, though. True, mayhaps Alys didn’t collaborate much (if at all), but her father was clearly aiming to snatch a betrothal to a Stark twin when he sent her to Winterfell alongside her brother. And by sheer coincidence, she clicked with the younger twin. I bet Lord Karstark is going to feel slightly disappointed, because you’re the better catch. No offense to Jon._

_Assuming, of course, that whatever they have going on between them ends up in marriage. But let’s be honest_ _—with how Westerosi politics work,_ _that’s the most likely outcome. If a problem can’t be solved by the blade, it is solved by the bed._

_I would know, I’ve been subject to proposals ever since I was born! But my father has refused them all. He says that he has big plans for me, and that the only offer he’s going to accept has to come from the King himself. Fat chance of that ever happening, though. Both Lannister and Florents hate our guts. And if I’m being perfectly honest, based on what I’ve heard, I don’t see much reason to care about Prince Joffrey._

_You northerners have hang-ups. I’d love to see you dealing with all the ‘courtly love’ there is in Highgarden. If you’re already retching just by your father showing some love for your mother, you’d be puking out of your elbows by the end of the first day here!_

_Eww, now I pictured that in my head and I can’t get it out._

_Warmly,_

_Maggie._

_PS: Yes, we are._

 

* * *

 

Sansa was on a mission. 

And so, with sure and decided step, she crossed the courtyard.

Robb, Domeric, Torrhen Karstark and Daryn Hornwood were sparring to their heart's content in the center of it, as they always did. ‘Small’ Jon Umber, tall as a tree and barely seventeen, was in the midst of an archery competition with skinny Olyvar Frey. Jon and Alys sat on a grassy knoll, chatting lightly and ignoring both the jeers and kissy noises Theon shot at them, and the daggers Arya glared at Alys while she played with Harry, Lya, Maisie and Rickon. Bran peeked from atop the armory’s roof, wary of the guards that their mother had assigned to try – and fail – to stop him from climbing. The Forrester twins were carelessly playing some music, the soft and calming melody giving the missing harmony to the halcyon atmosphere that hung over Winterfell.

She gave them all not a care, for her target was on the edge of the courtyard.

Clad in steel and with a two-hander, Anton sparred fiercely with Steffon Dustin, who instead opted for a light brigandine, some minor plate to protect his limbs, a sallet and a steel shield.

Steffon parried Anton’s swing with his shield, countering with a strike of his own sword. Anton, however, unexpectedly parried his plunge with his reinforced steel gauntlet and, using the pendulum momentum of his two-hander, swiped Steffon’s legs out from under him, making him fall to the ground in a heap.

“I yield!” Steffon cried from the ground, raising his arms in surrender. Anton merely nodded before turning around and walking away. “Good move,” Dustin added as he reincorporated himself, sheathing his sword. Anton harrumphed in reply, raising his close helm’s visor to take a drink from his waterskin.

Her cousin, despite wearing plate armour non-stop for over a full year by now (and even making it himself when Mikken refused to do it on her father’s command, although which pieces were the ones he had made were painfully obvious by his inexpert and amateur crafting), was still gaunt, pale and scruffy, with dark bags underneath his eyes like he lacked sleep, looking far, far older than his eleven years of age.

Anton pointedly ignored her presence when she came to stop in front of both boys, blatantly turning his gaze away from her. Steffon, on the contrary, duly nodded at her as he took out his sallet.

“Lady Sansa.” Steffon Dustin was just as old as her, ten years of age, with his short golden hair combed back. He was sturdy and well-built, and not at all unattractive, if Sansa was being honest, but Jeyne Poole was completely smitten with the heir to Barrowton, and she was nothing if not a good and faithful friend.

She rolled her eyes, almost amused. Almost. “Steffon, like I’ve already told you countless times, there’s no need for that. It’s just Sansa.”

Dustin smiled lightly. “And I’ve already told you, my lady, that my lady mother was very insistent on making me learn my courtesies and to treat everyone as befits their standing. So, no can do, lady Sansa. You deserve as much.”

“Are you done?” Anton snapped, calling their attention to him. Unlike Steffon, he hadn’t undone any of the straps that held his helmet closed tight, instead immediately shutting back his visor the instant he stopped drinking.

“Besides, it’s the least I can do, all things considered,” Steffon muttered softly, only for Sansa to hear.

“Hey. I asked you a question. Or are you deaf? Has the squealing of the children broken your ears already?” Anton insisted, his tone as acid as ever.

Sansa loved Anton with all her heart, she had done so her whole life, even through the whole year he had been unrelentlessly hostile to everyone in Winterfell. She loved him to bits, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t frustrated and annoyed beyond reason with his unexplainable behaviour. And even then, she had to wonder how Steffon managed to stand him.

“How can you stand that?” she voiced the thought, at the same volume as he had spoken to her before.

“If not me, then who?” was all he answered, before moving aside, leaving her face to helm with her cousin. 

Her beloved cousin, the one who once scared the monsters of the night away, yet now only stared at her with indifference, not even deigning fit to meet her eyes by raising his visor.

“No, I’m not done,” Sansa stated, praying her voice came out with more confidence than she felt, a knot threatening to form in her throat. “I want to talk with you.”

Anton tilted his head. When he spoke, the cheer in his voice was unmistakable. “Great!” For a brief instant, against all odds, disregarding all evidence, Sansa dared to hope. It was a mistake, for he immediately turned around, grabbed his two-hander and a wet rag, and sat on a petrified tree trunk. “Because I don’t. Leave.” And he started running the rag against his sword’s blade to clean it up of what meagre grime it had acquired with its use; a mummer’s farce done merely to emphasise how little he cared for whatever she had to say.

Sansa faltered for a brief instant, before frowning in righteous indignation. _No. It’s now or never._

“No,” she said. “No. We will do this.” Anton was silent, ignoring her words. “This? This whole thing? It needs to stop. I don’t know what happened to you while you were unconscious, but it needs to stop. Ple—Are you even listening to me?!” she couldn’t help but shout.

She could _feel_ how heavily Anton rolled his eyes underneath his helm, before turning towards her, head tilted in annoyance.

“You won’t shut up unless I listen to you, won’t you?”

Her lip quivered, but she couldn’t tell if it was out of anger or hurt. “No.”

“Fine. What do you want?”

“What I want is an explanation.”

“Of _what?_ There’s nothing to explain.”

“Of everything!” Sansa exploded. “Of why you act like you hate everyone! Of why you lash out at everyone who is only trying to look out after you! Of why you abandoned _me_ from one day to the other!”

That seemed to have struck a nerve, for Anton sharply looked at her.

“Why do you care?”

_Why wouldn’t I?_ she wanted to cry at him, tears stinging at her eyes. _Why wouldn’t I care that my inseparable cousin, my other half, suddenly turned away from it all? Why wouldn’t I care for your welfare? Why wouldn’t I care for how you’re slowly destroying yourself?_ But she couldn’t say it. She couldn’t make the words leave her mouth, all of them stuck in the knot in her throat. 

In the end, she meekly croaked: “I miss my cousin.”

“You ‘miss’ your cousin?” His laugh was cruel and heartless. “Well, _you_ drove him away. You, and everyone else who were supposed to be his family. You abandoned him when he needed you the most. Turn-cloaks and traitors. You are no kin of mine,” Anton spat, every word a dagger in her heart. 

“I nursed you while you were unconscious!” Sansa cried, reeling.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Anton spat. “Why do you even make an effort to cross the bridges you burnt down yourself, huh? Does it make you feel any better? Does it stroke your ego? Does it wash your hands from your own sins?” He stood up, walking towards her. He had always been a lanky youth, taller than her, and now, clad in armour, made for an imposing sight. 

Sansa couldn’t help but take a few steps back, biting back her tears. “Wha—what are you even talking about?!”

“Sure, act like you don’t know. You want to know why I _abandoned_ you?” There was a mocking emphasis in the word, a deliberate effort to hurt her further, to twist the knife. “Because you’re just like everyone else. Because I _trusted_ you. Because I _loved_ you, and that didn’t stop you from stabbing me in the back alongside the rest.“

“Anton…” Steffon said in a warning tone, stepping in between him and Sansa.

“No,” he snapped at his friend. His voice was brittle, belying the lack of expression the metal conveyed. “No. _You_ don’t get to tell me how I treat my _family,_ ” he said, his voice oozing acid and hatred. “You, the golden child, the son of a perfect marriage, the one whose younger siblings look up to and admire. No, you don’t get to say _anything._ ”

Steffon pursed his lips. He looked into the middle distance for a moment, then spoke in a measured tone. “You’re right. Maybe I don’t get the privilege to judge your family life.” He turned to stare at Anton straight in the eye. “But I still have the right to defend a lady’s honour. So, back off,” he said, raising his shield.

“Make me.”

The sound of the clash of steel against steel came first, the rim of Steffon’s iron shield bashing against Anton’s torso. Taken off-guard, her cousin stumbled and fell backwards. Anton raised his helmeted face, expression indecipherable, but Steffon, wordlessly, only put his sallet back on his head and took his sword out of his scabbard.

“You’ll regret that,” Anton muttered, and jumped to his feet, already lunging forward with his twohander.

And so they clashed once more, a vicious flurry of steel. They could keep at this all day, as Steffon was wont to claim.

But she couldn’t. 

And so she ran.

To wherever her feet took her, away from them.

Eventually she found herself sitting in the damp ground of the Godswood, resting her back against a sentinel tree while she cried.

Tears of pain, tears of grief, brought forth by the cruel words he said, by the barely concealed agony that had made his voice quiver even as he spouted hatred.

But mostly, because the Anton she had grown up with and loved was gone, only a hollow husk of the person he used to be standing in a suit of armour.

The Anton that played with her, indulging her in her silly fantasies like a whipped dog, even when he was vehemently vocal in his displeasure. The Anton that always made her laugh when she was feeling down, her eternal companion, her comforter and confidante. The Anton who wished to one day become a lord someplace, or maybe a sellsword and gain fortune. A gallant knight to make her proud.

Mistrustful, snarky, faithful, wonderful Anton.

The one person she knew would stand by her side came what came.

He was gone.

And she would never have him back.

She would pray for Anton, her Anton, to come back, but what would be the point? 

The Old Gods cared not for her turmoil, not a single answering breeze caressing her cheeks and telling her everything would be alright. If anything, the agonised face carved into the Weirwood trunk seemed cruel and sneering at her, laughing at her misery.

And so, she sat in the silence of the Godswood. 

Undisturbed.

Until she heard footsteps coming from behind.

Barely bothering to hide her tears, she sniffed and turned around.

Covered in sweat and grime, Domeric Bolton was standing in the middle of the godswood, fidgeting awkwardly with the hem of his leather gloves, eyebrows furrowed, and an uncertain look in his face.

“Sansa…? Are you… Are you alright?”

She only stared at him.

“I, uh… I overheard your discussion with Anton. Do you… Do you mind if I sit here with you?”

She nodded stiffly, biting back the sobs that threatened to surge out of her once again.

Softly, carefully, as if trying not to startle her, Domeric came to rest besides her, concern never leaving his eyes.

Silence.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Domeric offered kindly in his soft, silky voice.

Sansa choked on the knot in her throat. Tightening like a noose. “Then why are you here?”

“You seemed to need a shoulder to cry on. It’s the least I could do,” he shrugged, so innocently, so _genuine_ , so much like Anton used to do when she had a nightmare that Sansa burst down crying again. 

As awkwardly as only a youth of fifteen could be, he crossed his left arm across Sansa’s back, holding her as she cried. “Everything is going to be alright,” Domeric whispered to her, as he softly rubbed her back and looked into the distance.

And so she cried and cried and cried, until there were no more tears left to be shed.

Had it been hours? Or just mere minutes? Sansa couldn’t tell, but when she raised her eyes towards Domeric’s face, it was as if she was seeing him for the very first time. She observed every crevice, every small detail of his face. His slim, pointy chin. His thin lips. His long, dark hair combed backwards, falling all the way to his shoulders. And his pale grey eyes, almost white, were filled with unending kindness.

Domeric Bolton, conventionally speaking, wasn’t a most handsome man, inheriting his father’s plain and unassuming looks. But at that moment, even grimy and sweaty from the sparring he indulged in constantly, he was the most beautiful being she had ever laid her eyes upon.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe…

Maybe everything _would_ be alright.

 

* * *

 

**297**

 

“You don’t know how to light a bonfire, don’t you,” Theon’s dry voice came from behind him.

Jon raised his arm fiercely. “In my defense,” he began firmly, then trailed off. When he resumed talking a several seconds later, his voice was uncertain and unconvinced, his gaze unfocused, his arm halfway lowered. “I-I’ve never had to light one before.” He smiled sheepishly.

Theon facepalmed hard, then leaned against a tree with a condescending smile. “Good thing we decided to take you out camping, huh?”

“ _‘We’_ decided?” Domeric’s frowning face piped from the other side of the tent he and Robb were currently struggling to raise.

“ _Dom_ decided,” Theon amended his statement rapidly, rolling his eyes.

Jon crossed his arms. “I still don’t quite see the point of it,” he said petulantly.

“Well, Lord Stark always says that we need to know our way around our servants’ tasks,” Domeric explained in his soft voice, not so dissimilar to his father’s. “We can’t rely on our squires doing everything for us like the southrons do, so we have to know how to set up a camp, light a bonfire, cook…”

“Brush our horses, clean our chamberpots, braid our daughter’s hair, blah blah blah,” Theon finished with a flourish of his hand.

“Hey, jackass,” Robb snapped at him, his attention fixated on the stakes he was hammering into the wolfswood’s wet ground. “How about you do something useful instead of just standing there talking?”

“Robert Stark!” Theon gasped, mimicking Lady Catelyn’s stern voice. “That is _not_ a proper way to talk to your elders!”

“Gods I hate you…” Robb muttered.

“No you don’t,” Greyjoy replied cheekily.

“... No I don’t,” the heir to Winterfell conceded, “but I _will_ if you keep talking shit instead of being useful.”

“And what do you propose I do? I already secured the horses, and marked the way back home. There’s not much else to do, what with Jon taking care of the bonfire and you and Dom raising the tent,” Theon pointed out.

“Help us with the tent, maybe?” Robb pointed out, unfolding the tent’s canvas.

“Go hunt some rabbits?” Jon suggested.

“Go fuck yourself?” Domeric added, a hopeful tone in his voice.

Theon seemed to consider it. “Y’know, that’s not a bad idea.”

“Fucking yourself?”

Theon opened his mouth to reply, but it wasn’t his voice the one that spoke.

“Just checked the perimeter. There’s a stream about a mile or two that way. Should we move camp or stay here?” Torrhen Karstark asked from on top of his horse’s saddle as he approached them with a slow canter.

Theon scratched his chin. “Yeah, seems about right.”

“Couldn’t you mention that _before_ we unpacked the tent?” Robb scowled.

Torr shrugged sheepishly. “I didn’t know…?”

Domeric closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. “Karstark, I am going to kill you,” he muttered. He then opened his eyes, staring directly into Torrhen’s soul. _“Slowly.”_

Karstark gulped, sharp blades in his mind. “I-I mean, we could always stay here and just send someone every hour or two to fetch water. That works too, right?” Torr suggested, apologetic, his eyes darting between Robb and Domeric.

“Theon’s doing it!” Robb immediately snapped, pointing at Greyjoy with a finger.

“How about no?” the ironborn immediately shot back.

“You were just asking what you could do to help,” Jon agreed with his twin. “There you go, something to do.”

Theon pouted. “But I don’t _want_ to do it.”

Jon rolled his eyes, returning his gaze towards his fruitless struggle with the flintstone. “Just fucking do it.”

“You have no authority over me,” Theon said with a grin. “I’m an ironborn, not a northerner. I’m not sworn to House Stark.”

“Then why are you wearing white and grey, huh?” Torr pointed out, a sly look that Jon had only seen in Karstark’s sister, and had since learnt it meant mortal danger if you were caught off-guard.

And that’s exactly what happened to Theon, who completely lacked a snarky comeback for once. Instead, he looked flustered, embarrassed, even. For, indeed, his emblazoned sigil, which he had adopted barely a few days earlier, was a grey kraken on a white field. Jon almost winced in anticipation.

“Pray tell, Torr, aren’t House Greyjoy’s colours black and yellow?” Domeric smirked a sickeningly sweet smile that didn’t quite reach up to his pale eyes, eager to join in the verbal action against Theon. The ironborn no longer had his swagger, instead flinching as if struck.

“That they are, Dom.”

“Then why is our dear squid wearing a wolf’s pelt?” 

“Perhaps it’s more warm and comfortable than his own?”

“If he wishes to join the pack,” Robb interrupted firmly, silencing his two friends, “then he is welcome to do so.” A few seconds later, he smirked. “But that means he has to follow orders, just like everyone else. Theon, go get the water.”

The ironborn bit his lip, but eventually gave a defeated sigh. With a nod, he said, “Alright. Here, give me your waterskins, I’ll go refill them.” He turned towards Torr, still sat atop his horse. “Where did you say is the stream?”

“Go in a straight line, that way,” he said, pointing towards said direction as he passed his waterskin to Theon. “Eventually you should be able to hear the stream. You’ll find it just passing those two trees that look like they’re fucking; you’ll know which ones as soon as you see them” – The twins exchanged a puzzled glance. – “If you come across a runestone, though, you’ve passed it.”

“Got it,” Theon nodded and mounted his horse, a swift courser he had named Blitz. “See you guys in a while.”

“Don’t get yourself killed,” Robb grinned.

“I won’t give you the pleasure!” the ironborn shot back, his horse already trotting away in the direction Karstark had given him.

Barely a moment had passed when Robb turned to stare at his friends. Jon noted how eerily similar he looked to father at that moment, all the warmth gone from his bright blue eyes, a harsh and cold, even calculating, glaze in them.

“There was no need to humiliate him,” he stated bluntly. He wasn’t joking around anymore. Torr stiffened on the saddle, clearly uncomfortable.

“He was being an annoying prick,” Domeric defended himself.

Robb rolled his eyes. “He _is_ an annoying prick. And he’s our friend. He’s as much of a brother to me as you are, Bolton.” And even though his tone was detached of any feelings, Jon knew his brother meant it wholeheartedly, and he shared the thought. “And we don’t turn against our own.”

“Doesn’t it weird you out that he’s wearing your colours, though?” Torrhen asked, finally dismounting his horse. “He’s not a Stark.”

“No. You know why?” Robb paused, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Because that’s his decision. He has every right to adopt the personal sigil he damn well wishes. He is not a Stark, and nothing’s going to change that,” he conceded. “But if Theon feels that my house has been more of a family to him than his ever was, enough to merit dropping his forefathers’ colours in favour of the Stark’s, then I will welcome him with open arms as if he were my own. I will not shame him for knowing and showing where his heart lies, and neither will you. As soon as he returns, you will apologise to him, and that’s that,” he finalised, his voice never rising and his pitch the one any other thirteen years old would have, but the authority he carried might as well have belonged to a King, for it admitted no questioning.

Torr and Domeric were grown men already, both fifteen years of age, and they looked humbled by Robb’s words. Jon couldn’t stifle his smile. _The North is going to be in safe hands._

 

* * *

 

_Dear Robb,_

_What the hells, I think I actually like Theon now??? It takes some serious stones to go against your own family like that. Balon Greyjoy is going to be_ _livid._

_Not that I find it disagreeable, the Greyjoys have very little to be proud of, while you Starks are quite probably the most prestigious House in Westeros. Then again, you’ve been around for over eight thousand years. You’ve had time to build up your reputation. But ever since Lord Eddard took the lordship of Winterfell, you Starks are reaching new heights, as Malcolm Kidwell’s brown trousers can testify._

_The fact that my father wastes no breath without singing praises to yours to whomever is unfortunate enough to be within reach probably has something to do with that. My grandmother japes that perhaps he dreams to be Lady Catelyn, just to hold Lord Eddard in his arms at night._

_… I’ve just made it weird, didn’t I?_

_Anyway, a few weeks ago I met Prince Joffrey for a major feast King Robert held in King’s Landing in honour of his 35th name day._

_For the sake of brevity, I’ll just quote Loras’ words here:_

_“What a cunt.”_

_Lord Renly, though, is most courteous and gallant. He’s a good man. I can see why Loras gets along with him so well. Their banter was the highlight of the feast, to me._

_Still, I can’t help but feel like the feast was sorely missing something._

_A direwolf, maybe._

_Warmly,_

_Maggie._

 

* * *

 

_Dear Maggie,_

_He’s as good a Stark as anyone else in Winterfell. He told me he had consulted first with my father for his permission to adopt the colours, and that he’d just embraced him and said that he was proud of the man he had become._

_Probably because he doesn’t know him as well as I do (and hasn’t seen him in his worst), but I will not deny that Theon has really changed for the better since he arrived at Winterfell all those years ago._

_Gods, no pressure for me when my time comes, huh? I’m not sure I’ll be able to stand up to my father’s standard. He insists he’s so incredibly proud of me, but I’m not sure if he’s being serious or is just saying it for the sake of saying it. I just want to be as good as he is, but I… I don’t know. I don’t think I can be._

_Yes. Very weird._

_Oh Gods the mental image. It BURNS._

_It would seem that Sansa dodged an arrow, there. She used to dream of marrying the prince and becoming queen and all that, but I think now she’s very happy with Dom._

_Because that also happened._

_It’s really fucking disturbing, to be honest. It’s like two of your own siblings started courting each other. I mean, yes, I’m very glad for both of them (as well as aware of how good of a political match they are), but eugh. Is this how Duncan Targaryen felt about Jaehaerys II and Shaera’s affair?_

_We northerners aren’t all that big on feasts and tourneys, to be honest. I’m not so sure what good would I be down there. I’m just hoping I don’t bore you._

_Warmly,_

_Robb._

 

* * *

 

“Are you really _that_ clueless? Is my advice worthless? Am I a joke to you?”

“Why do I even show you my letters?” Robb despaired.

Theon shrugged. “Because I’m the only one who doesn’t believe she’s imaginary.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Out of your league? _Absolutely_ , you fucking suck at flirting and somehow manage to get worse with each passing day. But not imaginary.”

_“ **Get. Out.** "_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > This is the logical consequence of Benjen opting out for his third _son_ rather than child, and counting his twins as one. Had he not, Anton would have been 5 when Benjen left, and would have believed what he was told and gotten over it relatively switfly, as his own younger siblings have. As Benjen put it, "I will be gone long before Anton ever truly needs a father to care for him." But by the time he finally left, Anton was keenly aware of what happened around him and needed his father more than ever.
> 
> > Also, the references to the Bloodmoon are built on the premise that there _must_ be a reason for the prequel being named like that, so I just took it and ran with it, even if it turns out to just be a working title completely unrelated to the final plot. Whatever, I ain't waiting for them so I'm filling the blanks myself with my own headcanon.  
> Also, it's just your daily reminder that this fic **_isn't_** a fix-it fic.
> 
> > Sansa is one tough character to write, _especially as a kid_. She's not particularly witty or sarcastic or anything like that _at first_ (she eventually grows into it), and for a snarky smartass like me, is a very difficult obstacle to overcome and make her feel not-flat. Which is a task I'm pretty sure I failed, but oh well.
> 
> > Nykos Myrakis is Machiavelli. Because of course he is.
> 
> > The Histories. Because the idea of our real world existing in Westeros in the same way as Westeros exists in ours (as a ridiculously intricate world of fiction) is just too good to pass upon. And if you think it's just a plot device to develop Jon and Alys' budding friendship, you'd be wrong. The way of how different maesters have contributed to its writing also calls to mind the Arthurian Cycle, also known as the Matter of Britain, of medieval literature. Of course, the authors are based off real people:  
> » Jon Hardying -> John Hardying (or Harding) (1378-1465), contemporary chronicler of the War of the Roses.  
> » Claudys -> Claudio Sánchez-Albornoz (1893-1984), a _very_ prolific Spanish historian. His book's name, _Recuerdos de la Alhambra_ , is named after a classic Spanish guitar piece composed by Francisco Tárrega in 1898.  
> » Moris -> Maurice Druon (1918-2009), French novelist who wrote _The Accursed Kings_ , a historical fiction saga that GRRM has since quoted as "the original Game of Thrones".  
> » Heward -> Howard Carter (1874-1939), the Egyptologist who discovered Tutankhamun's tomb. His book's name, _Hallowed Land_ , is named after Miracle of Sound's eponymous song about Assassin's Creed Origins.  
> » Jeor -> George Smith (1840-1876), who first discovered and translated the Epic of Gilgamesh. His saga's name, _Cradle of Civilisation_ , is a generic title that lends itself to imply he wrote about what would be Mesopotamia, India, China, and the earliest part of Egyptian history.
> 
> > Also, when Alys is explaining the feudal hierarchy of the Histories, she gets it wrong. Earls are the English equivalent of Counts, not a rank above them. Below them are the Barons. This was deliberate, to parallel the ocasional mistakes even the most versed in Westeros' lore tend to make.
> 
> > Captain Barrowton? No, it doesn't have quite the same ring to it.  
> While Anton is indeed an original character I conceived and plotted last year and only renamed after Tony Stark in my post-Endgame depression, Steffon Dustin is very much an expy of Steve Rogers, designed to be an optimistic and wholesome chap, and a foil to play off against Anton's cynism and pesimism. Of course, I'm making the character my own, as we will see as their plotline progresses.
> 
> > Now, if you excuse me, I'm off to watch _Spiderman: Far From Home_ yet again because it was fucking awesome and if you haven't watched it go do it right now. I've been writing something Spidey-themed, too; just some canon-compliant fluff, not _yet another_ convoluted alt-universe plot-driven story with no end in sight; it's more of an outlet to blow off the Spideychelle steam I've been unable to control ever since (and one of the reasons this chapter took so long). Maybe I'll publish it. Maybe I won't. It depends on how coherent it turns out.
> 
> > Also, shout-out to Spectre4hire, because I'm a moron who only the other day finally fucking realised they're the author of the utterly brilliant [Our Blades Are Sharp ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8229550?view_full_work=true), which is _THE_ fic that initially sold me on Sansa/Domeric, and the main reason why I do the diplomatic move I do in CK2 AGOT (alongside getting Roose to not murder me).


End file.
